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®ljr Murks nf 

MRS. ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 


ADA’S TRUST. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

Apart from the religious principles inculcated by this 
story, it has a vivid interest and fascinating reality that will 
hold the reader to the end. 

ADRIFT. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

This story depicts the gradual passage of a soul from the 
darkness of error to the light and consolation of the truth. 
BETH’S PROMISE. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

A story well calculated to captivate the mind and fill the 
heart with love for all that is good and true. 

THE HEIRESS OF CARRIGMONA. l2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

The object here aimed at is to edify and to build up ; to 
conduct the mind into a channel of pure thought. 

PALMS. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

. A powerful narrative of the life of the ancient Romans at the 
time w r hen Christianity first pierced the gloom of ignorance. 

WARP AND WOOF. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

Life is the w’arp, our deeds the woof, which we weave into 
a web of grotesque designs and strange patterns of light and 
shade; symbols of sins, sorrows, joys, and mayhap repen- 
tance.” 

THE OLD HOUSE AT GLENARAN. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

. An Irish story of the first-class, teaching morals and re- 
ligion m a most captivating way. 

ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

A Maryland story of the days of Lord Baltimore. Its scenes 
are laid in the classic ground of St. Inigoes. It introduces 
many historic characters of that locality in the early days. 

THE FATE OF THE DANE and other Stories. 1 vol. 12mo. 
Cloth, $1.00. 

Four of Mrs. Dorsey’s best novelettes. 

TWO WAYS. TOM BOY. 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 

Two Ways is a story of convent school life, describing a 
little world in itself. Tom Boy is replete with fun, pathos, 
and child experience which is not all fiction. 


THE STUDENT OF BLENHEIM FOREST. 12mo. Cloth, 

$ 1 . 00 . 

The hero is of a distinguished Protestant family in old 
Virginia, whose clear intellect discerns beauties in Catholic 
teachings, which he heroically follows up until it ends in his 
happy conversion. 

For sale by all booksellers. Sent, post-paid, upon receipt of 
Price. Catalogues of our books tna iled free. 

JOHN MURPHY CO., Baltimore and New York. 


J 


ADA’S TRUST. 


- f(Ae,^ ‘ 

Airy- ANNA HANSON DORSEY, 

4 \ 

Author of “Coaina,” “Feemmings,” “Tangeed Paths,” 
“May Brooke,” etc., etc., etc. 




• • 




• • • 
• * 


• • 



• • 

• # • 


FOURTH THOUSAND. 



JOHN MURPHY COMPANY, 

BALTIMORE, MD. : NEW YORK: 


l 


.iTife 


Copyright, 1887, 

By ANNA HANSON DORSEY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


By Transfer 
0. C. Public Library 

aEc 2 2 1938 









WITHDRAWN 



Ada’s Trust. 


CHAPTER I. 

MIDNIGHT MASS. 

IT was a dark, cold night. The wind careered 
in wild, fitful gusts through the streets, causing 
the lamps to flicker dimly. The few belated 
people who were abroad drew their wraps closer 
and made the best headway they could, but be- 
fore they reached their homes a fine rain began 
to fall through the darkness, so bitterly cold that, 
as the wind hurled it against their faces* it .stung 
as if a thousand needle-points were piercing their 
flesh, and made them quicken their steps into a 
run. Freezing as it fell, everything was soon 
sheathed in ice. Wherever a tree swayed over a 
lamp, its bare branches glittered as if carven out 
of crystal, but there was no one to admire the 
effect, unless perchance some child was attracted 
by it — some child full of fancies, who had stolen 
out of bed to peep through the curtain, hoping 
to see Christingle careering over the opposite 
roofs towards his own, with a sled filled with de- 
lights for him. / 

.The streets were deserted, the wind raved up 

3 


4 


ADA’S TRUST. 


and down like a starved monster baffled of his 
prey, howling and making reprisals by knocking 
down chimney-tops, and ripping slates off the 
roofs with an alarming din and clatter. Added 
to this, great flakes of snow now mingled a flut- 
tering whiteness with the dancing sleet; faster 
and thicker they fell, clothing the dark, bare 
earth with a pure mantle, as the angel did Mary 
of Egypt in spotless, heaven-sent raiment. As 
the snow continued to come down, noiseless and 
beautiful, faster and faster, it beat out the dark- 
ness, a dim quivering whiteness filled the air, 
and at last the wind, as if stifled by it, fled away 
with uncanny wails and sobs into the far dis- 
tance, leaving it to spread samite of dazzling 
fairness, decked with diamond-like crystals, for 
the approach of u night’s high noon” when the 
Church celebrates the wonderful event that long, 
long ago ' 

“ awoke on the midnight so solemn and dim 

With the flame of a star, and the sound of a hymn; 

That was bright with the lustre and sweet with the tone 

Of the angels that sang, and the glory that shone.” 

The old watchman at the corner trolled out 
the hour in quavering notes: u It’s ’a’ parst 

’leven o’clock, an’ a snowy night.”* The holy 
anniversary at hand counted nothing with him: 
he only thought that here his beat ended, and 

* At the period our story opens, watchmen guarded the 
cities by night, and cried the hour, and very often the staf 
of the weather, as described. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


5 


he could go into his box and snooze for a half 
hour without dread of being roused up by a 
comrade’s rattle, for he knew that in such 
weather as this roguesters and thieves kept close 
within their own low dens. Before closing the 
door of his box, he stood in the doorway an in- 
stant to take a last look up and down the street — • 
not that he expected to see anything requiring 
his intervention, but trom habit. He did see 
something, however, that made him open his 
eyes wider, and involuntarily grip his club. 
Long lines of lights, swinging with unsteady 
motion not far above the pavement, appeared 
coming from different quarters, all seeming to 
converge towards one point, where they disap- 
peared. He was at first startled, for the snow 
still falling heavily, made everything look 
shadowy and unreal, especially any luminous 
object; then he suddenly remembered it was 
Christmas Eve, and that the lights were lanterns 
borne by men, women, and children on their 
way to the midnight Mass at the Cathedral, not 
far distant. 

C( Pshaw!” said the old fellow, as he turned in, 
snapped to his door, and poked a small fagot in 
his stove, “I’d ’a knowed what it was at first if 
it hadn’t been for the snow, the like of which I 
don’t remember for twenty years of a Chris’ mus 
Eve. They’d go their Church, them Cath’lics, 
if it rained cats an’ dogs, I bet! I aint been 
watchin’ of ’em for forty years, day and night, 


6 


ADA’S TRUST. 


not to know their ways. ’ ’ All the time he was 
thus “thinking aloud,” he was fumbling in a 
mysterious pocket in his shaggy coat, and drew 
out a small green flask, which he opened, then 
smelt, and at last put to his lips; a gurgling 
sound followed, which lasted a moment or so, 
the flask was recorked and restored with great 
care to the place he took it from, and with a 
long breath of satisfaction he dropped on his 
wooden chair and leaned back his head. “It 
was only a nip,” he murmured, drowsily. “But 
it’s so ’bout them Cath’lics. Rich an’ po’, 
white folks an’ niggers, it don’t make the least 
bit of difference; nothin’ upon the yearth keeps 
’em from cornin’ to the high-jinks always a-goin’ 
on in their churches, day nor night — nothin’, sir. 
Ah — h — h — h!” A snore finished it. 

So it was. All these people, undismayed by 
the storm, were on their way to offer homage to 
the Divine Babe, to honor the Virgin Mother so 
signally honored by the high Majesty of Heaven, 
to venerate and ask the prayers of St. Joseph, 
the guardian and protector. The lights they 
bore, although not with that intention, did seem 
typical of that wondrous light that rose out of 
the long sin-stained night of the world, to en- 
lighten and save it; and they had come from 
their comfortable homes, braving the storm, to 
show the fervor of their faith and their love for 
the Holy Family who in the City of David found 
uo better shelter than a stable — a rude, rock- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


7 


hewn cave, where the beasts of the field were 
housed. Some shivered with the cold; the aged 
and the children winced and staggered as it 
stung them, and the snow beat in their faces; 
but girding up their strength, speaking brief 
words of cheer to each other, they only paused 
to recover their breath,” and then follow on to 
the Cathedral, now in sight, through whose great 
windows streamed forth a painted glory that 
tinted the snow, and burnished the outer dark- 
ness with strange beauty. Into the wide, open 
doors poured the devout crowds, whose hearts, 
gladdened and cheered by the far-off splendors 
of the grand altar, thought no more of the rough, 
stormy night through which they had beaten 
their way — as when a tempest- tost mariner 
catches sight of the light-house that saves from 
sunken reefs and shipwreck, he forgets the dan- 
gers he has passed. Built of costly marble, 
without flaw or stain, and elevated several steps 
above the sanctuary, the altar was, as it should 
always be, the most conspicuous object in the 
immense church, and in full view from every 
part of it. Hundreds of wax candles, inter- 
spersed with rare flowers, and garlands of ever- 
green and scarlet holly, gleamed with star-like 
radiance upon it, their light reflected back by 
the golden candelabra which were garnished 
with long crystal pendants that added to the 
brilliant effect. The tabernacle, draped with 
cloth of gold, was surmounted by a large star, 


8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


formed of small transparent lamps massed 
together — a radiant object which at once con- 
centrated the mind upon the great Mystery it 
symbolized. For it is most fitting that on this 
joyous festival the place prepared to receive Him 
should be covered with the richest embroideries 
and decorated with costly garniture of gold and 
silver and precious stones, with lights and flow- 
ers; that the thurible, which holds the frankin- 
cense, be set with gems and send forth its 
fragrant clouds in His honor; it is most seemly 
that the celebrant be clad in all the richest of 
the symbolic and sacerdotal vestments in which 
to receive the Divine Babe, and offer Him hom- 
age and reparation for the darkness, the cold, 
and the poverty of the stable; while, above all, 
the organ peals, and loud, sweet, vibrant voices 
echo the hymn that the angels sang that mid- 
night long, long ago, above the Judean hills to 
the wondering shepherds — that hymn so old, yet 
so ever new, which freshens and grows sweeter 
as time rolls on, and which will never cease 
until the end of all things, when it will ascend 
to mingle and go on forever and ever with the 
harmonies of that heaven whence it came. 

The storm continued to rage without, but here 
all was light, peace, and consolation; the sor- 
rowing, hungry heart here found manna in the 
desert of its griefs; the almost despairing once 
more gave ear to the sweet whispers of hope; the 
returned prodigal received the kiss of peace, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


9 


and was filled at the Banquet prepared for him: 
the weak and the tempted were made stronger 
for future conflicts; and all, according to the de- 
gree and kind of their needs, found the’r faith 
renewed, and a balm for their wounds. 

In a side pew near the altar of the Good Shep- 
herd, which was partly sheltered from observa- 
tion by one of the gray pillars that supported the 
arched roof of the sanctuary, two ladies were 
kneeling, intent on their devotions, and as we 
shall know them better by and by, it does not 
seem irreverent to describe them. One of them 
was evidently past her prime; her hair soft and 
white lay in smooth bands on her forehead, her 
aspect was dignified, and on her countenance 
there was an ineffaceable trace of some past, 
sharp sorrow, which is always more perceptible 
in a face that is at rest. Her bonnet and heavy 
wraps were black, but whether worn as mourn- 
ing or from choice, was not apparent; she only 
lifted her eyes now and then to fix them in de- 
vout recollection upon the altar and what was 
passing there. Her companion was young, her 
face full of the glow of health, her eyes large and 
dark; her mouth, slightly drooping at the cor- 
ners, was suggestive of sadness, yet no one could 
have said that her sweet, serious countenance 
indicated unhappiness, or that her fair forehead 
around which her brown hair, “thridded wi’ 
gold,” strayed in little vagrant rings, had on it 
the faintest line of care. A cap of some costly 


IO 


ADA’S TRUST. 


foreign fur covered her head, and a large mantle 
of the same sort effectually kept out the cold. 
Her long, fair hands were bare, as were those of 
her companion: it was a custom they had learned 
abroad in foreign lands to draw off their gloves, 
out of reverence, at the Offertory, at which mo- 
ment the Divine Sacrifice actually begins. Al- 
though differing widely in age and appearance, 
both were animated by the same spirit of devo- 
tion and oneness of faith, both hearts alike lifted 
up in contemplation of the great and joyous 
Mystery then being celebrated, and filled with 
thankfulness that they were able to be present 
and assist at it. It was plain to see that the 
elder lady had, at some time or other, drunk of 
a bitter cup and grown strong through suffering, 
and that the other was unacquainted with those 
trials which make life a passion and a pain. 
The dark shadow of the cross had not yet veiled 
the sunshine of her existence; and if she ever 
thought of such a possibility, it was with that 
vague feeling a child has who was never burned, 
when he thinks of the fire. One grief had 
come into her life, one that could never come 
again — the death of her father, which after 
wringing her heart with its bitter sense of loss, 
and turning her eyes into fountains of tears, 
naturally led her to the means provided by her 
divine faith, which gave her not only the hope 
and promise of finding him again, but also the 
sweet assurance . that by her prayers she could 


ADA’S TRUST. 


II 


still solace and help him — and she was com- 
forted, and gladness hallowed by tenderest mem- 
ories, returned to her. This loss, then, was the 
only meaning grief had for her. She had seen 
people sorrowful, she had heard of hearts being 
broken, and lives worn out by trial, but it all 
seemed unreal to her comprehension, even 
though she was pained by the recital, and 
heartily wished she could in some way comfort 
their misery. 

At last the midnight Mass is over, and every 
one begins to move towards the door, finding it 
slow work on account of the great crowd. The 
two ladies, from the side pew near the altar of 
the Good Shepherd, are moving slowly with the 
rest, but not too slowly for their purpose, which 
was to slip into the hands of several needy per- 
sons, with whose condition they were acquainted, 
certain pieces of money which gladdened theii 
poor hearts with a sense of anticipated comfort. 
It was done in passing: no one saw what they 
did, neither did they observe each other’s act, or 
even know of each other’s intention. Alms so 
given are far more precious to Him whose Na- 
tivity had this night been celebrated, than the 
gold that was offered with the frankincense and 
myrrh by the princes of the East who came to 
adore Him. His own words declare that such 
things done to the least of His little ones are 
done unto Him . There can be no higher incen- 
tive, no holier motive to help the destitute than 
this. 


12 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Having reached the door, their lantern was re- 
lit by a good-natured boy who was just lighting 
his own, and they courageously went out to face 
the storm. The snow still fell heavily, and lay 
ankle-deep on the streets, while the cold had 
grown more intense, but their home was only a 
few squares distant, and quite a number of per- 
sons were going in the same direction. Lanterns 
streamed away from the Cathedral in every di- 
rection — streamed away into the darkness; those 
who bore them were ere long housed, and the 
outer world was left to the storm; for even the 
watchmen, knowing that it was too bitterly cold 
for mischief to be abroad, comforted themselves 
with more frequent naps between then and day- 
light. 

“ Aunty, aren’t you quite frozen? But don’t 
open your lips to answer; wrap yourself close, 
and hand over the lantern to me,” said the 
younger lady, taking forcible possession of the 
glazed lantern, as they turned the corner of the 
Cathedral. 

“But you, my dear — you are not accustomed 
to such weather as this. ’ ’ 

U I soon shall be,” was the laughing answer. 
“I like it. And besides, Aunty, you forget that 
I’m on my ‘native heath.’ Oh, the snow is so 
lovely ! ’ ’ 

“But your throat?” said the other, between 
her chattering teeth. 

<l .I’m dressed like an Esquimaux, and as warm 


ADA’S TRUST. 1 3 

as toast. If you had only taken my advice, Aunt 
Mary, you would not now be shivering.” 

“This is small discomfort to endure for the 
great joy we have had to-night,” was the reply. 

“I was thinking only of you, Aunty. I don’t 
mind the cold. It is exhilarating; it makes my 
blood tingle and dance through my veins; but 
even if it didn’t, and made me ache and shiver 
instead, I should think just as you do. I almost 
wish I had found something more difficult to 
encounter than this great, beautiful white snow- 
storm, so I could have shown my love for the 
Divine Babe and His holy Mother, and the dear 
old, patient, lovely, silent St. Joseph all the 
same,” said the girl, her face all aglow with the 
fervor of her wish. 

How many have breathed the same wish with- 
out the afterthought that had they indeed lived 
then , and abode in Bethlehem, it is more than 
possible that they would have been one of those 
who closed their doors on the Holy Family, and 
how few think at the moment that “it is more 
blessed for those who not having seen, have be- 
lieved! ” 

By this time they had reached their own door, 
and saw the inner glow of their home reflected 
through curtained windows; they knew that in 
a few moments they would be housed, and sur- 
rounded by all that earth gives of luxury and 
ease. 

“I feel almost ashamed to go in,” said the 


*4 


ADA’S TRUST. 


girl, as they waited for the door to be opened; 
“ everything is so warm and beautiful, so unlike 
the cold, rough stable of Bethlehem. n 

“But what a glorious company was there! 
The Christ-Child cradled in the arms of His Im- 
maculate Virgin Mother, St. Joseph, and wait- 
ing angels!” said the lady, in low, gentle tones. 
“It was holy ground.” 

“Yes: He had a throne more pure and holy 
than the whole earth could have given Him, for 
she is the true ‘Ark of the Covenant.’ Oh, 
Aunt Mary, it is all so wonderful and lovely, 
that I should like just to love the Divine Child 
as St. Anthony of Padua did. But I suppose I 
never shall.” 

“The desire goes for a great deal. If our cups 
are small and hold only a little we must be satis- 
fied, knowing how glad we should be were they 
larger and running over. Those with the large 
cups, like St. Anthony, are always ready to help 
us who have little ones, and offer of their abun- 
dance, for us, what we lack.” 

“I hope so. I sha’n’t be backward in asking, 
Aunty, for my cup is no bigger than my thimble, 
I’m afraid. But did you know that this is my 
birthday?” 

“I had quite forgotten it, Ada.” The door 
was opened by a drowsy servant, just wakened 
by the sound of the bell, which had been pulled 
three times before he heard it; and they went 
into the sitting-room to throw off their wraps, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*5 


and put their half-frozen feet upon the fender to 
thaw. “Yes, dear child, I had forgotten that 
you were born on Christinas day. It has been 
so many years — no not so many years, but so 
much has happened between then and now that 
it seems a very, very long time ago. My darling, 
may your life be a happy one!” 

“It has been like a summer holiday always. 
Except that one terrible grief about poor papa, I 
have never known a cloud. My days have been 
all so bright and brimming over with the de- 
light of living, that sometimes, Aunt Mary — - 
only think how foolish! — I feel afraid,” said Ada, 
laying her head upon her aunt’s shoulder and 
snugging herself close to her. 

“Trials will doubtless come in some form or 
another; no life is exempt from them;” was the 
reply that came after a little pause; “but do not 
feel afraid: your holy Faith will give you cour- 
age and strength to meet them and bear them.” 
“Well, Aunty, if so they must come, let them, 
in God’s own time. I don’t mean to make my- 
self miserable expecting them — or even after 
they do come, if I can help myself. Oh, dear 
Aunty, life is such a lovely, sweet, blessed gift! 
Don' t you think God means us to enjoy it?” 

“As His gift, yes.” Then embracing each 
other they separated, not for the night, for it was 
now 3 o’clock and Christmas morning. 

Mrs. Ogden had just taken her seat at the 
head of the table when Ada Moore entered the 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*o 

breakfast-room, her face beaming with smiles, 
her eyes radiant with happiness. “ Christmas 
gift!” was her first greeting, as she advanced 
with both hands behind her. 

u So you have caught me!” said Mrs. Ogden, 
as she took up an oval velvet case from the table. 
“Here it is.” 

“Catch me too, or I won’t take it,” was the 
girl’s laughing reply, as she stopped half way. 

“Nonsense, Ada. It seems such a childish 
thing for an old body like me to do.” 

“We couldn’t do better than to be childish 
to-day. And you’re not old. You only think 
so because you have been living so long alone, 
with not a single young person about you until 
I dropped into your arms. I don’t mean to let 
this getting-old process go on, if I can prevent 
it,” she said, with saucy fondness. 

“Will it make you any happier if I do as you 
wish? ” asked Mrs. Ogden, with a look of affec- 
tion. 

“Yes.” 

1 ( Christmas gift, then ! ’ ’ 

“ Here it is. I think if I had been obliged to 
wait a day longer I should have had to tell you 
about it,” said Ada, as she laid a package on the 
table, snapping string after string, and tore off 
several layers of wrapping-paper, revealing at 
last a fine cabinet painting of St. Michael with 
a palin-branch, surmounted by stars, announcing 
to the Blessed Virgin the hour of her death. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


17 


“ There!” said Ada, holding it tip, with a 
triumphant smile; “aren’t you glad you caught 
me?” 

“ Where did you get — . Who painted it?” 
exclaimed Mrs. Ogden, taking the beautiful 
frame in both hands, and gazing upon the paint- 
ing with delight. u Oh, my dear child, there is 
nothing on earth that you could have given me 
that I should hold so precious. 4 Thank you ’ is a 
very poor expression ; let me kiss you and thank 
you together.” 

“Dear Aunty, you make me very happy,” 
said Ada, her face suffused with a glow of 
pleasure. 

44 But how did you come to think of it, and 
who copied it?” 

44 I’ll ’fess,” said Ada — sitting down and rest- 
ing her clasped hands on the edge of the table — 
4 4 I’ll ’fess what a little intriguer I am. You 
didn’t know, Aunty, how I used to watch you 
at the Borghese Gallery, while we were in Rome. 
I couldn’t tell what made you always slip away 
from us, to go to that little arched room where 
only a few dingy old pictures were hanging, and 
I determined to find out, and I did. Do you re- 
member that day we dragged you off to look at 
something we thought very fine; and how, as 
quickly as you could, you slipped back? I knew 
where to find you, and sure enough there you 
were, and for the first time I really saw what at- 
tracted you so often to that spot. There was a 


i8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


beautiful light on the painting, which brought 
out the figures from the dingy, worm-eaten back- 
ground, in all their marvellous grace and color- 
ing, which time had only mellowed. I thought 
at first that it was an Annunciation , that the 
bending Archangel was Gabriel, until you told 
me better; then I saw that our Blessed Lady’s 
face, although tender and lovely, was that of one 
full of years, and wore an expression of some- 
thing more heavenly than ever the fairest youth 
could give. And the Angel, how grand and 
princely and mighty, how more than beautiful 
in the holy calm and majesty of his countenance, 
as, bowed before her, he announces that he is 
appointed to receive her pure soul! Aunty, if 
you remember, I sat quietly down and said noth- 
ing about going; I was more than willing to 
stay, and felt annoyed when our party found us 
and said it was time to leave.” 

“But, dear child, how did you get permission 
to have it copied? It is a very rare Giotto; it is 
said there’s not another one anywhere.” 

“So I heard; but I persuaded your old friend, 
the Cardinal, to ask Prince Borghese to let me 
have a cabinet copy made from it; and he, being 
a relation of the Borghese family, pleaded my 
cause so well, that permission was granted, with 
this condition, that the copy was not to be re- 
peated. I agreed to everything, and then the 
dear old Cardinal managed the whole business. 
A protege of his, who is already famous, was en- 


ADA’S TRUbT. 


l 9 


gaged to paint the copy; the Cardinal — no mean 
artist himself, you know — looked in on him 
every few days, until it was completed, and 
framed, and packed, and shipped, and last week 
it arrived. You were out when it came, and I 
was too thankful that you were.” 

“How well you managed, and all to give me 
a great happiness!” said Mrs. Ogden, with a 
fond look. ‘ ‘ How often have I thought of the 
picture, and longed to see it. ’ ’ 

“And it is now yours, to have and to hold 
forever. But where’s my Christmas gift?” 

Ada opened the oval case, which Mrs. Ogden 
placed in her hands, and looked long and ear- 
nestly at what was within — a look of uncertainty 
and sadness blending together in her counte- 
nance. “Who is this, Aunt Mary? there’s 
something in the face that reminds me of papa. 
Is it, can it be a likeness of him when he was 
young?” 

“Yes, darling. It was painted soon after he 
left college. He was just twenty, and he gave 
it to me when he went away to study for his 
profession. ’ ’ 

“ Did he give mamma one like it?” 

4 1 He gave her his miniature after they became 
engaged, ten years after this was painted; of 
course he had changed a good deal in that time.” 
“Thank you, Aunty, a thousand times. I 
am so glad to know exactly how dear papa 
looked when he was young. It is a beautiful. 


20 


ADA’S TRUST. 


brave face. My dearest!” — she whispered, press- 
ing it to her lips, while tears filled her eyes; 
then she closed the case and laid it softly down 
near her plate. 

u We must eat our Christmas breakfast now. 
I fear all these nice things Aunt Rhoda has sent 
up are getting cold. Lift off the covers, dearest, 
and let us begin,” said Mrs. Ogden, cheerfully, 
as if determined to cast all sad thoughts behind 
her for a time. A difficult thing to do, for anni- 
versaries get to be the saddest things in life as 
we go on, they are so clogged with memories of 
the losses and crosses we have known and suf- 
fered. 

U I believe I am hungry, Aunty; I may say 
ravenous. That coffee smells delicious; give me 
a cup filled to the brim, with just two lumps of 
sugar and a generous dash of cream. What a 
cordial, to be sure!” Then both of them began 
to enjoy their breakfast, with much pleasant talk, 
and a tranquil enjoyment which is the best sauce. 

U I am sorry you happened to be out yester- 
day, Ada, when I was packing up some pretty 
things to send my other niece. I wished you to 
see them.” 

‘ ‘ ‘ Other niece ! ’ Where is she, and who ? I 
am already jealous, Aunty,” said Ada, laying 
down her knife and fork, with a look of comical 
surprise. 

” Is it possible I never spoke to you of youi 
cousin J udith ? ’ ’ 


ADA’S TRUST. 


21 


“Never! Judith? It is the first time lever 
heard of her! ” 

“I thought I had spoken to you about her: 
but now I remember, it was to your father. She 
is the only child of my brother, Lindsay Darrall. 
They live on the coast of Virginia, near Cape 
Charles — a rough, savage situation, unless the 
weather is bright, and calm enough for a Halcyon 
to float; then it is beautiful, as beautiful as air, 
sunshine and ocean can make it. It is a lone- 
some, out of the way place, but it was my 
brother’s fancy.” 

“ Did you ever see her — Judith ? ” 

‘ ( Oh, yes, I have been there and seen her a few 
times — once since she grew up. She is a strange, 
silent girl, dark and beautiful. She has grown 
up under peculiar circumstances. Her mother 
died when she was a child, and she has lived 
there most of the time with no companionship 
except that of her father, who spends his life 
among his books, trying to solve mysteries that 
human reason can never reach. A sister of his 
second wife, with her son, lives there, to take 
care of things and manage affairs.” A look of 
pain shadowed Mrs. Ogden’s face for a moment, 
which Ada noted. 

“It is a strange name — I mean out of the 
Bible. Judith!” she said, musingly. 

“Her mother was a Jewess, which will account 
for her name,” observed Mrs. Ogden. 

“A Jewess, Aunty! Do tell me something 
more,” said Ada, full of eager interest. 


22 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“Yes, dear, I will, if you won’t think it too 
dull, this bright, bright holiday.” 

“No fear of that. That name — -Judith — is the 
key to some pretty romance, I am sure.” 

“You are half right, but then your own name 
is a Hebrew one — ” 

“Without a romance,” was Ada’s laughing 
reply; “at least, not yet.” 

“To begin, then. My brother was travelling 
in the East, and met his wife in Damascus. He 
had letters of credit on her father, Judah Bala- 
din, a rich banker, who invited him to dine, and 
altogether made much of him. After a further 
acquaintance Baladin introduced my brother to 
the ladies of his household, his widowed sister 
and his daughter Leah, in the latter of whom he 
saw his high ideal of Hebrew beauty, as it was 
in ancient times, more than realized. He always 
received a hospitable welcome from the banker 
and his family, who felt an unusual interest in 
the young American, who knew the history of 
their people, and, Christian though he was, held 
it in reverence. But before long it became too 
apparent that a sentiment stronger than friend- 
ship was growing up in the hearts of the young 
people towards each other. My brother did not 
attempt to conceal his preference, and meant, as 
soon as he was assured of hers, to speak to her 
father, as av honorable gentleman under the like 
circumstances would speak to any other father 
when he asked his permission to marry his 


ADA’S TRUST. 


23 


daughter. But suddenly the doors of the bankei 
were closed against him; he was no longer ad- 
mitted when he called, nor could he get an in- 
terview with him. He wrote a respectful note 
to Baladin, to which he received the following 
brief reply: “ A maid of Israel, and she of direct 
Asmonean descent from fudas Machabeus, may 
not consort with Gentile or Christian .” It was 
only what my brother might have expected, 
knowing what he did of the history of the Jews, 
and how closely the faithful among them cling 
to the Law and their ancient customs. He re- 
alized it now, but determined to bide his time, 
in the forlorn hope of overcoming every obstacle 
to the attainment of his wishes. One evening, 
in the dusk, he was aimlessly sauntering in the 
neighborhood of one of the beautiful gardens of 
Damascus, inhaling its spicy odors, and cursing 
the insenate bigotry and fanaticism of creeds, 
when some one gliding behind him touched his 
shoulder, and turning swiftly he saw a tall, 
veiled woman before him. She was Leah’s old 
nurse, who had put herself in his way, at the 
peril of her life, to tell him that her young mis- 
tress was pining herself to death at their separa- 
tion, and had been kept in close confinement 
ever since their secret was discovered. ‘She 
couldn’t bear to see her child wasting away; she 
was the only thing left to her on earth to love,’ 
she said, ‘and if she died, she too would find a 
way to die. To know she was alive and happy, 


24 


ADA’S TRUST. 


even if she never saw her face again, was all that 
she asked.’ Other things passed between them; 
and the next day, having made all his arrange- 
ments, he left Damascus, or was supposed to 
have done so, in the caravan that went away the 
following morning at sunrise, bound for Jerusa- 
lem. When Baladin’s suspicions were lulled 
into security by the departure of his daughter’s 
lover, his vigilance relaxed and he gave her the 
range of the extensive gardens surrounding his 
house. He loved her passionately, but he would 
rather have slain her with his own hand than 
she should have degraded her ancient lineage by 
marrying a Christian — so far above all human 
consideration was his devotion to the faith of his 
people and the glory of their past. 

u One morning it was discovered that Leah had 
disappeared. Her old nurse was discovered in 
the gallery leading to her apartments, bound 
with cords and stupefied by some powerful nar- 
cotic. Pursuit immediately followed towards 
Jerusalem, whither it was reported the Sahib 
Darrall — as they called him — had gone ten days 
before. Baladin felt in his heart that wherever 
he found one, the other would not be far off. He 
incited those in pursuit to the highest speed by 
promises of rich rewards, which acted as a sharp 
spur on their indolent oriental nature. Silent, 
grim, and unforgiving, he accompanied the train 
under a vow neither to eat nor drink until he 
rescued his daughter and avenged himself upon 


ADA’S TRUST. 


2C 

the one who had despoiled him of her. He was 
not wrong in his suspicions; but he started on 
the wrong trail. The fugitives were twelve 
hours ahead, on their way to Joppa, which they 
reached just in time to catch the French steamer 
for Marseilles; while Baladin and his people, 
quite misled, were pursuing them in another 
direction.” 

“But the olci nurse, Aunty! did you ever hear 
how it was that she was tied up in that way, and 
stupefied with opium — I suppose it was opium? ” 
inquired Ada, with keen interest. 

u Yes, I heard it all. She did it herself, with 
Leah’s assistance; so that when found in that 
condition, all suspicion would be averted from 
her, as the result proved.” 

“ What a romance to have in oue’s family!” 
exclaimed Ada. “It is delightful to know that 
it really did happen. And then — after they got 
to Marseilles, Aunty?” 

4 1 Leah was prostrated with sea-sickness from 
the day the steamer left Joppa until the end of 
their very rough voyage. My brother had found 
out, shortly after they embarked, that the cap- 
tain’s wife was making the trip with him, and 
he asked permission to place his sister under her 
protection, which she readily granted, and not 
only shared her state-room with her, but nursed 
her as untiringly as if she had been her own 
daughter, until they reached Marseilles. Here 
she was the guest of her warm-hearted friend — 


26 


ADA’S TRUST. 


who by this time was made acquainted with the 
true facts of the case — for a few days, until she 
recovered her strength, when, having abjured 
her religion, she and my brother were married, 
and at once set sail for the United States. You 
may be sure that the good woman who had 
shown them so much true kindness was gener- 
ously rewarded before their departure; she 
refused to make charges for her services or 
receive payment for them, but was finally 
obliged by their entreaties to accept, as an ex- 
pression of their gratitude, the gift they offered. 
I told you Leah abjured her religion. She knew 
that a marriage with one outside her own faith 
made her an outcast from it, so the abjuration 
was to her simply a form; she accepted no other 
belief at that time, or ever, and always clung to 
the traditions of her people, and gloried in her 
descent. They' reached home safely. There 
was no one who had the right to disapprove of 
my brother’s marriage except myself, and I felt 
no disposition to do so after I saw his wife. Her 
gentleness, her extreme loveliness, and her 
youth, disarmed me of whatever slight resent- 
ment I had felt at his choice, and I soon learned 
to love her. She was as happy and blithe as a 
song-bird in their old gray house by the sea; its 
walls bounded her world, and the society of her 
husband was all she desired. But such idyllic 
happiness could not last, and when her baby was 
nearly a year old she died — yes — she died.” 


ADA’S TRUST. 27 

Again a shadow stole over the calm of Mrs. 
Ogden’s countenance. 

There was evidently something left unsaid, 
but Ada did not dare ask what; delicacy forbade 
it. She only remarked: “Her death must have 
been a great blow to my uncle.” 

“It was, indeed, and changed the whole tenor 
of his life. Always devoted to books and scien- 
tific studies, he plunged into the most abstruse 
reading, secluding himself in his library as if to 
escape the very memory of his sorrow, to the ut- 
ter neglect of his child, his affairs, and his 
slaves, of whom he had a large number. One 
day something that had gone wrong and had to 
be brought to his notice awoke him to the state 
of things around him. It dawned upon him 
that his daughter, seven years old, was running 
wild, undisciplined and unkempt, and sadly 
needed a mother’s care, and the only remedy for 
it all, that he could think of, was to marry 
again, which he did as soon as possible, then 
went back to his books with the comfortable 
feeling that a duty fulfilled always imparts. It 
did not take long for his wife, however, to dis- 
cover his motif in marrying her. It was to pro- 
vide himself with a housekeeper who would 
manage his affairs and train and care for his 
child, and leave him free to live out his own life 
among his books. She felt a womanly sort of 
pity for the poor little girl thrown upon her 
care, as friendless there in that great old house 


28 


ADA’S TRUST. 


as she herself was, and she was kind to her after 
a fashion. That is, she never beat or scolded 
her, and did now and then see to her physical 
comforts; but as to training her, she was incapa- 
ble of it, both from her own soft, indolent na- 
ture, and utter ignorance of the best means to 
do so. My brother’s habits displeased and 
made her unhappy, and the everlasting sound 
of the ocean nearly drove her distracted; she had 
no resources within herself, and, worst of all, no 
settled religious faith to teach and help her to 
bear her trials, which, as you see, were not trifling 
ones. So after a few years she died, very much to 
my brother’s astonishment and dismay. Not 
knowing what to do, and determined never to 
marry again, he invited his wife’s sister, who had 
come to nurse her through her last illness — a Mrs. 
Willis — to live there, to take charge of the house- 
keeping, and be as a mother to Judith. She was 
a widow, with one child — a boy — and poor, and 
seeing with a quick eye certain prospective pos- 
sibilities in the future, independent of the gen- 
erous sum my brother offered to pay her annually 
for her services, she did not hesitate to accept the 
arrangement, on condition of keeping her son 
with her. There was some little demur about 
this; to have a lout of a boy in his house, to be- 
come the companion of Judith, his daughter, 
iiad not entered into his calculations; he offered 
to .send him away to school, to get rid of the dif- 
ficulty, but she was firm; ‘they could not be sep- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


29 


arated,’ she said, ‘and they must either both 
stay, or both go.’ She began to pack up her 
things to leave; my brother yielded the point, 
and she and her boy remained. She proved her- 
self an energetic housekeeper, and a first-class 
manager; my brother was never allowed to have 
a care; no worry was permitted by her vigilance 
ever to approach him. She attended to every- 
thing. System and order reign where neglect, 
waste, and discomfort prevailed; in fact, there is 
not a more well-ordered house to be found than 
Mrs. Willis has made it. But there’s something 
— I fear the arrangement will not prove what it 
seemed to promise, either for my brother or 
Judith. Things are out of tune, but the reason 
is not apparent. Mrs. Willis is a great manager, 
but — there’s some under-current,” said Mrs. 
Ogden, slowly, as she drew out her watch and 
looked at it. ‘ ‘ But we must banish sad thoughts 
to-day. Have you been eating anything, Ada?” 
“As if I could help eating, with such delicious 
sauce as you have been giving me. Pardon me, 
Aunty, that is not just the thing to say; but I 
have been intensely interested in what you have 
told me, and I’d like of all things to pay my 
Uncle Darrall and Judith a visit.” 

“We shall go next summer, perhaps. Who is 
that for ? ’ ’ asked Mrs. Ogden, as a servant came 
in with a telegram on the card-tray. 

“ It’s for Miss Ada, mem,” said the boy, hand- 
ing it to her. 


3 ° 


ADA’S TRUST. 


u For me! I never got a telegram in all my 
life. I wonder who on earth it is from!” she 
said, taking it from the tray and opening it. She 
glanced over it, a delicate flush mounted to 
her face, and ‘ 1 Oh ! ’ ’ dropped from her lips. 
“Aunty,” she said, as she passed the telegram 
to Mrs. Ogden, “it is from Maurice Talbot, 
whom we met abroad, you know. He has just 
got home. ’ ’ 

“I see. He expects, with your permission, to 
be here to-morrow. What will you say?” 

“I shall be glad to see him,” was the low- 
voiced answer. 

‘ 4 So shall I — unless he turns out to be one of 
the Three lords that come from Spain” you 
know the rest, darling. ’ ’ 

“What then, Aunty?” she asked, looking up 
with a bright smile. 

“I don’t think, in that case, I shall be so glad 
to see him. Have you corresponded? If you 
have, you had better invite him on, unless you 
prefer that I should do it.” 

“Thanks, Aunty. We have written to each 
other a few times only. Perhaps he will expect 
a word from me,” said Ada, with a frank, sweet 
smile. 

“Just as you please, my darling. It is near 
church-time, and you’ll just have time to write 
your dispatch and send it off. I’m going to my 
room to dress,” said Mrs. Ogden, as she rose 
from the table, rang for the dining-room servant, 
and went away upstairs. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


3 * 


4t 01i, it is just the loveliest Christmas-gift, 
after dear papa’s miniature, that I could possibly 
have got!” said Ada Moore, when she found her- 
self alone, as she read the telegram again. U I 
shall be so glad to see him! I wish I could tell 
Aunty how happy I am. I will, after he comes.” 
Then she ran up to her room to write her mes- 
sage, which she dispatched by a servant without 
delay. 

A little while ago she had said, referring to 
her name as being of Hebrew origin, u Yes, but 
without the romance . — at least not yet . ” Was 
the telegram which made her so happy, the av ant- 
courier of the romance her words seemed to fore- 
shadow? 

Mrs. Ogden had invited a party of old friends, 
consisting of three ladies and one gentleman, to 
take an early Christmas dinner with her, and 
they all came home together from the Cathedral. 
Ada Moore, quietly happy in the hope that the 
telegram had brought her, overflowed with good 
will to all the world; it was therefore not a dull 
task for her to devote herself to their entertain- 
ment when she had such a well-spring of joy 
within herself. It was evident from the plain, 
rusty toilets of Mrs. Ogden’s guests, that they 
had known better days, and, from their refined 
and somewhat stately manners, that they were, 
in old-fashioned parlance, gentlefolk. They 
were relics of a perhaps better period than our 
own., when the proprieties were a law unto men 


3 * 


ADA’S TRUST. 


and women, and to be what is now known as 
“fast,” was damaging to a young girl’s reputa- 
tion. Mrs. Ogden’s affectionate and simple wel- 
come was divested of the slightest tinge of pa- 
tronage, or that indefinable something which, is 
felt more than seen in some people’s manner 
towards their less fortunate friends when they 
invite them to partake of their hospitality. She 
was, in the true sense of the word, a Christian 
lady, without affectation or ostentation, and, 
helped by her sympathetic nature, was much 
given to “doing unto others as she would they 
should do unto her.” All restraint was banished 
from the minds of her guests after the first few 
moments of standing on the defensive, for in the 
innermost heart of each one of them, that blessed 
Christmas day, lay coiled a determination, ready 
to spring if occasion demanded, to let it be seen 
that though they were no longer rich, their 
claims otherwise to social distinction were in no 
degree lessened. There was nothing to mar their 
enjoyment; they felt that they were in their right 
element in the midst of the elegant surroundings 
to which they were formerly accustomed; but 
their hearts were touched all the same by Mrs. 
Ogden’s sweet remembrance in bringing them 
from their comfortless, solitary rooms and scant 
meals, into all the warmth and luxury and pleas- 
antness of her home. It was one of her ways of 
celebrating the holy festivals, to try and make 
others happy by sharing the good things of this 


ADA’S TRUST. 


33 


life, wherewith she was blessed, with them. And 
the true motif of her life was that charity, with- 
Dut which all good works are as u sounding 
brass, ’ ’ as nothing. And yet this lady, who was 
constantly doing God’s work without parade or 
self-seeking, never for a moment imagined her- 
self to be either a saint or an apostle: such an 
idea would have terrified her almost as a sign of 
reprobation. But it is one of the littlenesses of 
human nature not to like those whom we hear 
praised, the mirror of such an example showing 
us our own shortcomings in too vivid contrast, 
and we will not dwell any longer on Mrs. Ogden’s 
virtues, but leave her actions to illustrate them 
as the story goes on. 

The dinner was an early one, as was usual on 
Sundays and holydays, to 'give the servants, in 
turn, time for attendance at Mass, or Vespers, 
and for a little wholesome rest and enjoyment. 
When it was over, Mrs. Ogden led her friends 
into the drawing-room, where Ada’s Christmas 
gift to her that morning, conspicuously placed 
on an easel, in a good light, attracted their in- 
terest and admiration, the more so, as the subject 
of the painting was new to them. They had a 
cultured, appreciative taste, and it gratified their 
kind hostess to notice the delight with which 
they examined the photographs of celebrated and 
classic scenes abroad, and all the paintings and 
curios she had brought home with her. And 
so the hours passed delightfully — giving and re- 
ceiving pleasure lending them wings. 


34 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Ada Moore was sitting close to old Mr. Reid, 
whom she had disposed of in a softly-cushioned 
“ sleepy-hollow ” chair. He was very thin and 
very chilly, and preferred being near the genial 
glow of the fire to standing around gazing at 
things which he really could not well distinguish 
even through his glasses, which, although rimmed 
with gold, were too young for him. He had 
grown old, and though his eyes were dim, the 
glasses were the same he had first used, thirty 
years before, and the fact was he could not afford 
to purchase others. This was one of his secrets, 
which he made every pretence, that didn’t in- 
volve a lie, to conceal. Just now he was bewail- 
ing the fact that gentlemen had ceased to powder 
• their hair, to wear ruffled shirts, and knee- 
breeches fastened with jewelled buckles, and 
Ada delighted his heart* by agreeing with him; 
she “had seen that style in old portraits, and 
admired it highly as one that distinguished gen- 
tlemen from their footmen, ’ ’ she said. 

“Yes,” he replied, with a little sigh, “every- 
thing is so mixed up now that all classes dress 
alike. I was one of the last to hold out for the 
old fashions, though, until the unpleasant atten- 
tion I attracted made it very disagreeable for me. 
My dear young lady, if you can credit such a 
thing, I was hooted at, and pelted by boys when 
I appeared on the street; they actually called 
me ‘crazy daddy,’ and followed me in crowds to 
my very door. It was partly the result of the 


ADA’S TRUST. 


35 


mob spirit in this city, a mob spirit born of the 
French Revolution.” Mr. Reid brought his 
small white fist down energetically upon his 
knee, and there was a momentary outflash of 
long dormant fire in his sunken eyes, which 
quickly subsided, however, and he went on: “It 
almost broke my heart to dress like a footman, 
but I had to do it or be martyred. If it had 
been for my faith, I should have gloried in being 
martyred ; but as it was a mere matter of dress, 
I yielded to public opinion.” 

Ada thought she detected a tear in the broken- 
down gentleman’s eyes; she was not sure, but he 
certainly blew his nose with great emphasis. 
“What a shame!” she said, in a low tone of 
sympathy. 

“Where did you see the portraits you referred 
to just now, my dear young lady?” — his gentle 
breeding told him that he had talked enough 
about himself. 

‘ 4 Some of the finest in the private galleries of 
the houses my father was invited to visit when 
we were in England. I always went with him, 
as I was — although not a grown-up young lady 
— included in the invitations. Some of the old 
portraits were very fine. I saw the Cecils’, Lord 
Baltimore's, William Penn’s, Earl Talbot’s, and 
oh! ever so many more.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Reid, dryly, “they were be- 
fore my time, by many years. The Cecils and 
Calverts and Talbots were Catholics. Penn was 
a Dissenter. Were you abroad long?” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


3 b 

“Oh, yes, indeed! from the time I was a little 
child. Papa was never very strong, and when 
he died, two years ago, Aunty came over, and 
then we traveled a great deal,” answered Ada, 
while a sad expression stole over her counte- 
nance. 

“Did you happen to meet in your wanderings 
a young gentleman named Maurice Talbot? His 
father and myself were like David and Jonathan 
— I mean, of course, in our love for one another,” 
said Mr. Reid, with a gentle chuckle. 

“Oh, yes! Aunty and I were going with the 
Mortons and Scotts to Ober-Ammergau, to see 
the great Passion Play, and came across him at 
Munich. Mr. and Mrs. Morton knew him be- 
fore, and invited him to join the party, as he 
was on his way there too, and all alone. We 
found him very pleasant, and you know how 
quickly people get acquainted when they are 
traveling together,” said Ada Moore, her face 
beaming with smiles. 

“He’s a nice boy, and I think he’ll do his 
family credit. He’s come of a fine race of men. 
Not one of them ever did a thing for him to be 
ashamed of now. But race doesn’t count for 
much now — except in horses.” He couldn’t 
help it, poor little gentleman! — he was an aristo- 
crat in the grain, and was too old to reform. 

“I don’t think he will either — that is, as far 
as 1 can judge,” said Ada, checking herself, 
while the rose- tint deepened in her cheeks. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


37 


4 ‘Mr. Morton and Mr. Scott spoke of him a great 
deal as an honorable, intelligent young fellow; 
in fact, he was a general favorite, and in great 
danger of being spoilt. But let me place this 
screen at your back, Mr. Reid; there seems to be 
a draft from somewhere,” she said, rising from 
her cushion to move the screen, while all the 
time, like a song-bird in her heart, a low, soft 
whisper kept repeating, u To-morrow! to-mor- 
row he will be here. ’ ’ 

When the party went up-stairs to get on their 
wraps and overshoes, Mrs. Ogden went with 
them. 

“ You have given me a very happy Christmas, 
dear friends, by dining with me, ’ ’ she said, with 
her pleasant smile; U but my happiness is incom- 
plete until I hand over my little Christmas gifts. 
I have been busy all the week sending away 
tokens to be remembered by for a year at least. 
But you are all so near, that I thought it would 
be pleasanter to give them in person. ’ ’ And she 
placed a nicely-done-up little package in the 
hand of each lady, telling them in turn to slip it 
into their pockets and not open it until they got 
home, as it would break the charm if they did. 

“I hope it is nothing very valuable, Mary; I 
am too poor nowadays to accept anything at all 
costly, ’ ’ said one, drawing herself up. 

U I wish it was as valuable as the Queen’s 
great diamond; but it is not. It is only a trifling 
gift from one old friend to another; so don’t be 


33 


ADA’S TRUST. 


ungracious, that’s a good soul!” answered Mrs. 
Ogden, as she tied the old lady’s bonnet-strings 
for her. 

“And how about mine? You know, my child, 
that I can make no return, and it is humiliating 
for the obligation to be all on one side,” said an- 
other, while a spot of vivid red glowed out on 
each of her faded cheeks. 

“If there’s any obligation it is all mine. Dear 
friends, we must not be proud with each other 
to-day,” she answered, quickly. 

“It is not so much a question of pride as of 
self-respect, dear Mary,” spoke the third; “you 
are a generous soul, but I’m sure you have too 
much respect for me to offer that which I cannot 
accept. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ Of course I would not. But we must make 
haste. There’s the second bell, and I’m afraid 
we shall miss not only Vespers but Benediction, 
if we don’t hurry. Just let me kiss you all 
round and wish you the very best of everything 
for the coming year, and hope that you’ll all 
dine with me next Christmas, and as often be- 
tween now and then as you can. ’ ’ Then, hurry- 
ing away to her own room, Mrs. Ogden threw 
on her wraps and bonnet, and found them ill 
waiting for her in the hall when she went down. 
She saw that Ada wanted to speak to her; so, as 
the last of her guests stepped out of the hall- 
door, she paused an instant. 

“I did it, Aunty. I didn’t dare give it to him, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


39 


you know, for fear of seeing it thrown into the 
the grate, but while I was helping him on with 
with his overcoat I managed to slip it into his 
vest-pocket. You never saw anything so adroitly 
done in your life. I believe after this I could 
pick a pocket without ever being found out,” 
she said, laughing. 

“I’m glad you managed so well; his was the 
most difficult case. I won’t wait for you; you 
can follow on; it is late.” And Mrs. Ogden 
wore a smile of satisfaction. 

“I’ll join you before you get round the cor- 
ner,” answered Ada, in blithe tones. 

It is not necessary to reveal the contents of 
those mysterious packages given by Mrs. Ogden 
to her friends, in a form which she knew would 
do them the most good. They were not returned; 
her generous gift was thankfully used, and never 
referred to again, which was exactly what she 
desired. And so she laid up treasures in heaven, 
and so she won prayers and blessings which 
would help her in her day of need. This in- 
stance was only an inconsiderable part of her 
good, generous deeds, but it was the most diffi- 
cult, because the most delicate, and she always 
fe.w that she had achieved a great success when 
she could help without wounding the sensitive 
self-respect of such as had known better days. 

After Vespers, Mrs. Ogden and Ada went to 
offer their respects and best wishes to the Arch- 
bishop, who was a relation of the former, and 


40 


ADA’S TRUST. 


whose residence was within a few steps of the Ca- 
thedral. They intended to remain only just long 
enough for the purpose of their visit, knowing 
that his duties had been arduous for the last few 
days, and that he needed rest Having greeted 
them, and given his blessing, he made them sit 
down, then turning to Ada, and shaking his fin- 
ger at her, he said: 

U I have found you out, my child, in spite of 
the clever way you took to be mysterious. I 
wondered if St. Dorothea could have sent all 
those superb flowers for the altar, and if it had 
not been for a squabble I accidentally overheard 
between your messenger and the sexton, I should 
have been left wondering still.” 

u How so, your Grace?” asked Ada, her face 
covered with smiles and blushes. 

‘ ‘ I was on my way, through the corridor at 
the back of the Cathedral, to my confessional, 
when my attention was attracted by the sound 
of a man’s voice speaking in rough, positive 
tones. It was so dark that I could see nothing 
distinctly, so I went towards the door which 
opens into the sacristy, whence the sounds 
seemed to come, and heard the same voice say: 
4 1 can’t help all that. I was instructed by Miss 
Ada Moore, the lady that bought and paid for 
them, to place the flowering plants that are in the 
pots and tubs in the sanctuary myself, as I un- 
- derstand the handling of them, and I don’t mean 
to have ’em broken and destroyed for you or any- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


4* 


body else- And so if I can’t do what I was or- 
dered to do, I’ll take every stick of ’em back 
where they came from. ’ ’ ’ 

4 4 Oh, I gave such particular and positive di- 
rections to them all, not to breathe my name to 
any one!” said Ada. 4 4 1’ 11 go there to-morrow 

and ask him why he did so, and tell him how 
displeased I am.” 

44 He couldn’t help it, my child; he’s one of 
my countrymen, you know, and with us what 
comes uppermost is apt to tumble out, right or 
wrong. The sexton answered him gruffly, and 
I was afraid if I didn’t show myself in time 
there be something harder than words between 
them; so I stepped forward, told them I had 
overheard the dispute — that the florist was right, 
and the sexton also, from his standpoint; then 
I directed them to assist each other in removing 
your gift to the Divine Babe to the sanctuary, 
where I knew the ladies of the society were al- 
ready arranging everything for midnight Mass. 
They were oveijoyed to have them, for they 
made more beautiful the holy places. Now, my 
child, here’s a trifle I wish you to accept: it was 
blessed by t-he Holy Father when I was in Rome. 
It is not an unselfish gift, for I attach a condi- 
tion to your acceptance of it, which is to remem- 
ber to say a few 4 Aves’ for me now and then,” 
said his Grace, as he handed her a chaplet of 
garnets strung on gold. 

4 4 Oh, how beautiful they are; just like beaded 


4r 


ADA’S TRUST. 


drops of red wine!” said Ada, holding them up 
between herself and the firelight. “ Thanks, 
your Grace; I shall say a decade every day for 
your health and happiness. ’ ’ 

“That’s right, iny child; I need all the pray- 
ers you can spare. The mitre is not a crown of 
roses. This is for you, Mary, ’ ’ he said, handing 
Mrs. Ogden a small, gold-bound crystal case con- 
taining an Agnus Dei, and several relics set ex- 
quisitely in that dainty filigree-work which is 
only done to perfection by the religieuses of 
Rome. “Hang it up in your oratory, and don’t 
forget to ask for me the intercession of the saints 
whose relics are there.” 

“Be sure I will, cousin John; it’s a perfect 
treasure above price, with those precious relics. 
We came for your blessing, and you send us 
away with gifts added to it. Thank you so 
much! Now we must go, and leave you to rest 
yourself,” she answered. 

“Just a moment,” he said, in a low tone, 
which reached only Mrs. Ogden’s ear, for Ada 
had gone to another part of the room to look at 
a fine painting of St. Cecilia attended by angels. 
“I took to that poor young woman, myself, the 
money you placed in my hands, and your heart 
will be glad when I tell you that the comforts it 
procured have already so far improved the con- 
dition of her consumptive husband that he ex- 
pects to be able to take up his graving tools 
again in a short time.” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


43 


“I am indeed more glad than I can express 
Let me know when they need help again. 1 
would go to see them, but I have no excuse for 
intruding. Your visits are the best for them, 
cousin John,” said Mrs. Ogden, in low, earnest 
tones, while her face glowed with contentment. 

u May our Blessed Lady keep you in humility 
of spirit, Mary. Remember always, my dear, 
that you are only the steward of Him who has 
bestowed wealth upon you to distribute to His 
needy and .suffering ones,” said the Archbishop, 
ever watchful over this pure soul, lest self-seek- 
ing or vain glory should enter in and tarnish it, 
thereby depriving her of the merit of her good 
works. 

“Yes, with her help I shall always try to re- 
member. You will not fail to remind me,” she 
said. 

“Never fear that I will,” was his reply, as she 
knelt a moment to kiss his ring and get his 
blessing. 

“Come, my darling, it is time for us to go,” 
Mrs. Ogden said, turning to Ada. Then they 
took leave, and hurried home. 

In the evening a few friends dropped in, 
among them a young lady who had particularly 
devoted herself to Ada ever since her return 
home, Miss Daisy Garnet, a handsome rather 
than pretty girl, full of life, warm-hearted, and 
sometimes given to doing things which, without 
harm in themselves, were, to say the least, eccen- 


44 


ADA’S TRUST. 


trie and just bordering on “fast.” She was not 
a Catholic, and although she claimed to be a 
Christian, she declared herself independent of 
creeds, and went to church just wherever the 
whim or fashion led her. She was very amusing 
and a great favorite, and Ada Moore yielded to 
the witchery of her manner, as every one else 
did, without, however, going beyond the bounds 
of a pleasant acquaintance, for it was one of her 
peculiar characteristics to be slow in forming 
friendships. It was a perfectly natural trait, and 
a very good one, which served to balance her 
otherwise impulsive qualities. It was not that 
she was distrustful, or suspicious of the motives 
of persons she met, either of which would have 
made her quite miserable; but her friendships 
were of slow growth all the same, and when 
once formed were constant and impregnable. 

When at last their friends went away, and 
they were alone, sitting together by the glowing 
fire, thinking over the incidents of the day, Ada 
threw her arms around her Aunt, and resting 
her cheek against hers, said in gentle tones, as 
if thinking aloud: “What a happy, happy day, 
this has been,” while hope, nestling away in her 
innermost heart, ever whispered, “To-morrow! 
tomorrow ! ’ ’ 

“It has indeed,” said Mrs. Ogden, returning 
her caress; “but it is almost gone; in three 
minutes more the clock will strike twelve. Let 
as see it out, then go to bed. I am sure we 


ADA’S TRUST. 


45 


shall have pleasant dreams.” Even while she 
was speaking, the clock on the mantel, in sweet, 
silvery notes, announced midnight, and began to 
play a fairy-like waltz by way of good-night. 

“It is ‘To-morrow,’ and daylight and sunrise 
will soon be here; then — ” thought Ada, on her 
way up-stairs. We know not what else she 
thought, we can only imagine by the delicate 
glow on her face, and the soft radiant light in 
her eyes, what it was. 


46 


ADA’S TRUST. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ADA’S TRUST. 

“To-morrow” came; the day trains from 
the north were both in, but Maurice Talbot had 
not arrived, neither did Ada receive letter or 
telegram explaining his delay. “ There’s some 
good reason for it, ” she mused, “that we shall 
both laugh over when he comes. I’m sure he’s 
on his way now, and will be here by the night 
train.” She was disappointed though, but not 
a shadow of mistrust disturbed her strong faith 
in him. “It is no use to try to read,” she 
thought, as she closed her book, “ or to sit here 
thinking about it; I’ll take a run out somewhere, 
to get the fog blown from my fancies.” And 
Ada put on her furs, and stepped over to the sit- 
ting-room, where Mrs. Ogden was writing letters. 

u I’m off for a walk, Aunty. I really think I 
ate too much plum-pudding yesterday, and need 
exercise,” she said. 

“It is very cold and windy, my child; I’m 
afraid it is not prudent for you to go,” Mrs. 
Ogden remarked, as she looked up from her 
writing. 

“The wind is just what I need, Aunty, and 1 
don’t mind the cold. By-by till you see me 


ADA’S TRUST. 47 

back,” she answered, merrily, as she turned 
to go. 

The wind was strong and piercing, and she 
had to fight her way against it, but she liked the 
scuffle and the after-glow; it was action, and the 
girl had a spirit that naturally rose against de- 
feat. She was afraid, two or three times when 
it whirled her round, and would have lifted her 
off her feet if she had not clung to a lamp-post, 
that she’d have to turn back; but when it raged 
past, she went bravely on until she reached the 
point where she meant her walk to end; then 
she started to retrace her way, while the wind, 
now at her back, accelerated her speed until she 
reached the Cathedral, where she ran in to say 
some u Aves” for the Archbishop, as she had 
promised, and for her own intention; after which, 
refreshed in heart and mind, and glowing with 
pure, healthful life, she went home, thinking 
that ‘‘perhaps, just perhaps,” a letter, or a tele- 
gram had been left for her in her absence. But 
there was neither. “It is now clear,” her heart 
whispered, “that he will come by the n o’clock 
train to-night, and he will call to-morrow first 
thing; yes, quite early his visit will be, I know, 
and I shall be so glad to see him, that I shall 
forget all about this worry.” 

But another morrow came and went, and yet 
another, and another, and another, without 
bringing a sign or word from Maurice Talbot. 
Ada grew a little more quiet than was natural 


48 


ADA’S TRUST. 


to one of her happy temperament, and some 
painful doubts began to suggest themselves; but 
she fought them off by keeping herself actively 
occupied, or in trying to do some little thing or 
other to give pleasure to her friends. There was 
a great deal of holiday visiting to be done, in a 
quiet way, for she was still in mourning; and 
although she was excused from parties, Mrs. Og- 
den thought justly that a moderate degree of 
friendly and social intercourse would be good for 
her, as it would help to divert her mind from 
brooding too often over the loss of her father. 
But there were other and more sacred duties 
which demanded her first attention, and to which 
she gave a glad and ready obedience, thereby 
preparing herself for future trials, should such 
come. Mrs. Ogden had not been unobservant 
of what was passing. She could not in the least 
account for Maurice Talbot’s continued absence, 
and she knew that Ada had received no word 
from him; but she refrained from speaking, lest 
she should seem to be forcing herself into her 
confidence. But of late she had several times 
noticed a sad, thoughtful look in Ada’s eyes, 
and wondered if it was imagination that made 
her fancy that her face was paler than it was 
wont to be. She did not know, but determined 
to set her doubts at rest by taking an opportu- 
nity to speak to Ada — for what other earthly 
friend had she to whose bosom she could confide 
her sorrows, except herself? 


ADA’S TRUST. 


49 


One day when they were together in the sit- 
ting-room, both engaged over some dainty needle- 
work for a church fair, Mrs. Ogden opened the 
subject of her disquiet by saying, as if it had 
just occurred to her: 4 4 By the by, Ada, did you 
ever hear anything more of Maurice Talbot?” 
“No,” she answered, quietly, while a delicate 
flush overspread her face. 

“How very strange!” sue responded, now 
firmly convinced that something had happened 
to give her darling pain, in which Maurice Tal- 
bot was concerned either directly or indirectly: 
4 4 1 wonder if he can be ill ? ” 

4 4 1 have not the least idea, Aunty. ’ ’ 

4 4 But perhaps he did not get your telegram, 
Christmas day? It is always such a busy and 
such a health-drinking season, that maybe the 
telegraph operator himself was in an hilarious, 
confused state of mind, and overlooked it. ’ ’ 

4 4 Perhaps so; it may be,” answered Ada, with 
more interest. 

4 4 On that supposition, then, I really think it 
would be well to ascertain whether or not he did 
get your telegram. If he did not, he no doubt 
feels hurt and mortified by your seeming neglect 
of him,” said Mrs. Ogden. 4 4 If you will give 
me his address in New York, I will send a mes- 
sage at once to inquire. I do not hold that it is 
right to let a thing run on, if it can be cleared 
up. It is just for the want of a little frankness 
that there are so many ruptures and broken 


50 


ADA’S TRUST. 


friendships in the world, to say nothing of en- 
mities. Shall I do it, Ada?” 

“If you think best, Aunt Mary. He must 
think very strangely of me, if it is as you s lp- 
pose; he’s so proud and sensitive,” she answered, 
giving Mrs, Ogden his address. u Anything,” 
she thought, “is better than this silence and un- 
certainty. It may be as Aunty says; but he 
should have written. I thought he was more 
frank, that he believed and trusted me; I never 
supposed he would do so small a thing as to sulk 
— and with me.” Her lips trembled, and tears 
filled her eyes. 

j 

“Pull the bell, darling. I want to send Ben 
right off with this. Ben,” she said, as he opened 
the door, while she folded the note, “take this 
to the telegraph office; give it to the gentleman 
at the window, and tell him you will wait for an 
answer. There’s money to pay for it; and don’t 
fail to wait, however long, for the answer.” 
“Not all day, Missis; you don’t mean I’m to 
wait all day?” asked Ben, as he stood an instant 
with the message in his fingers, a perplexed look 
on his dusky face. 

“Oh no! Wait a reasonable time, say two or 
three hours. Then, if by that time there’s no 
answer, tell them to send it whenever it reaches 
the office, and come home.” 

“I understand now, Missis,” replied Ben, as 
he disappeared to do his errand. 

It was only a brief line that Mrs. Ogden sent: 


ADA’S TRUST. 


5 1 


4 4 Did Mr. Maurice Talbot receive the telegram 
sent him on Christmas day? Mary Ogden.” 
That was all; and sufficient, she thought, to set 
things right. After waiting at the telegraph 
office two hours, Ben’s heart was gladdened by 
being told that his answer had come, and would 
be ready in a minute or so for him. It was 
rapidly copied, folded, put in an envelope, di- 
rected, and then handed to Ben, who hurried 
home with it, feeling as if he had been in a 
region of witchcraft, and that what with all 
those mysterious-looking wires and clickings and 
tilings, his life had been in danger. It was with 
a sensation of deliverance and triumph that he 
placed the envelope in Mrs. Ogden’s hand, and 
retired to his pantry to finish polishing his silver. 
Mrs. Ogden tore open the envelope and read: 
4 ‘The message referred to was received. M aurice 
Talbot.” That was all; these few curt words, 
without a regret, or a promise of explanation to 
excuse his strange conduct. 

4 4 1 cannot understand it. It is one of those 
things which will have to unravel itself. Neither 
of us, darling, could ask an explanation after 
this,” said Mrs. Ogden, with difficulty suppres- 
sing her indignation. She tossed the telegram 
into the grate, where the glowing coals instantly 
devoured it, leaving only a little thin film oi 
white ashes where it had been. 

44 1 shall never ask,” said Ada, as she watched 
the filmy, tremulous ashes, thinking that even 
so hei bright dream had ended. 


SI 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“Will you tell me, darling, how it was be- 
tween you and Maurice Talbot?” 

u Willingly, Aunty; but there’s very little to 
tell. You already know how we met abroad, 
and how well we got to know him on our way 
to Ober- Ammergau ; you must have noticed how 
much we were together after that. His atten- 
tions were altogether unsought, and at first I 
would have prevented them, but my efforts to do 
so were ineffectual ; for whichever way I turned, 
or wherever I went, he joined me, or found me 
out and walked with me. After awhile I began 
to miss him when he didn’t come, and was verv 
glad when he did, and one day it dawned upon 
me that my happiness depended very much upon 
his society. I am telling you very frankly, 
Aunt Mary, all that I have to tell, you see.” 
u Thank you, darling; it is always good to 
have one loving, faithful heart, to confide in.” 
U I would have told you everything before, 
Aunty; but, as there was nothing settled, I did 
not think it would be altogether honorable to do 
so. He asked me to promise to be his wife, but 
I could not do that without being entirely sure 
of myself, and I was not quite sure — then. There 
was only this understanding between us: he 
knew that I liked him, but there was to be no 
engagement until he came home from Europe, 
and not even then, if I had a shadow of a doubt 
left as to my preference for him. He was satis 
fied, at last, that my desire was for his happiness 


ADA’S TRUST. 


53 


in this delay, as well as for my own. Meantime 
we have corresponded occasionally. As the time 
drew near for his return, my decision was made. 
I meant to accept him — when this happened. ’ ’ 
Ada leaned her face on her hand, partially shad- 
ing it; but Mrs. Ogden saw tears stealing over 
her cheek, but not a sigh or sound escaped her 
lips. After a little while she said to her: 

“Ada, my child, won’t it comfort you to know 
that a man who could behave so is unworthy of 
one like yourself?” 

“If Maurice Talbot were like other men I 
might think so; but he is not. I could not have 
been deceived in one whose character I have so 
closely studied. I am hurt, Aunty, but I am 
quite sure that something has happened, some- 
thing as unforeseen as it was sudden, which has 
been as a law to his own mind to act so,” said 
Ada, lifting her head. 

“When did you hear from him — by letter I 
mean — before he reached home?” asked Mrs. 
Ogden, gently. 

“After I sent those photographs, which I had 
taken at Fowler’s gallery, as soon as we got 
here. One was for him, four of them for old 
friends of papa’s in Italy, which he was to de- 
liver to them, and one for yourself. He was to 
select the one that pleased him best. He selected 
the one standing by a casement, with a spray of 
white roses in the hand, and thought it was so 
perfect a likeness that he wondered almost why 


54 


ADA’S TRUST. 


it did not speak. He said a great deal about the 
picture, and that he should hold it as sacred as 
the memory of me. That’s all.” 

u But, dear child, don’t you see, granting all 
his love for you, that if there was anything he 
could not understand, no matter when or where, 
it was due to you from him as a man of honor 
to be frank with you, and give you a chance to 
defend yourself — that is, if he imagines you to 
be in fault, and the cause is not his own fickle- 
ness ? ’ ’ 

“It is what I should have done, I think now. 
But we must not judge him yet, Aunty; we shall 
hear all about it one of these days, and maybe 
feel sorry if we are now harsh in our judgments. 
I trust him through it all, and if my trust is 
built on a sandy foundation — well, it will only 
topple over and be washed out of sight by the 
waves. ’ ’ 

U 0ur Blessed Lady have you in her holy 
keeping, my poor darling,” said Mrs. Odgen, 
laying her hand very gently on Ada’s head. 
How gladly would she have shielded you from a 
trial like this, if she could! ” 

u We won’t speak of it again, Aunt Mary, and 
let us try not to judge by appearances; I have 
often read that there’s nothing more deceptive. 
I won’t deny that I feel bitterly hurt and disap- 
pointed; but I don’t mean to let it break my 
heart. I shall find plenty to do and think about, 
and after a little while the sunshine will look as 
bright to me as ever.” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


55 


“Thank God for giving you a brave soul, Ada, 
my darling, as well as an evenly balanced mind. 
Think you we shall finish these pretty little gar- 
ments by the time the fair opens?” 

u We have to-morrow, with part of to-day; yes, 

1 think so. It is such dainty, beautiful work. I 
wonder what new little soul will wear this to be 
christened in?” said Ada, shaking out the long, 
fine infant’s robe, filmy with costly lace and cun- 
ning embroideries, all the work of her own fin- 
gers. She folded up the dainty garment, then 
leaned over Mrs. Ogden’s chair, and kissed her, . 
saying: “I think I’ll go round to church fora 
little while.” 

And there, where she had so often knelt before 
when her sky was without a cloud, where in the 
pure joyousness of her life she had offered her 
devotions at the altar of Mary Immaculate, she 
now bowed, sore with the hurt of her first sor- 
row, to plead for help to bear it. Here in the 
peaceful silence, with the dim shadows of the 
Cathedral brooding around, and where only a 
single speck of light, like a distant star, was vis- 
ible above the sanctuary, the wild beating of her 
heart grew more still, and faith whispered that 
help to bear the cross would surely come. 

Days and weeks passed on, but nothing hap- 
pened to lift the impenetrable veil that had so 
suddenly fallen between the two hearts which up 
to that moment had loved and trusted each other, 
and no allusion was made to the subject by Mrs. 


5^ 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Ogden or Ada, although each of them knew how 
often it was in the other’s mind. No one in the 
large circle of their friends could have imagined 
that the fair girl, who was so genial and pleasant 
to every one, and so general a favorite, was pass- 
ing through the ordeal of a sharp trial, all the 
more painful because inexplicable. 

One morning Mrs. Ogden went out, on good 
works intent, leaving Ada alone to put the fin- 
ishing touches to a water-color view she had 
sketched somewhere in Bavaria, and wanted to 
finish. But she found it revived so many mem- 
ories she wished to banish, that she determined 
to put it away in her portfolio, which she did 
with an involuntary sigh, wondering if a time 
would ever come when she could think of the 
past with indifference. But her heart answered 
that the task was impossible while she retained 
the least trust in Maurice Talbot. That she did 
trust him she was obliged to admit, and it might 
be foolish; but it was there, rooted fast, though 
by no will of her own. 

“I have come for you to walk with me, Ada. 
How do you do, and why in the world are you 
moping indoors, with such weather as this?” 
were the words that suddenly broke on the 
silence of the room. Turning quickly, Ada 
saw Daisy Garnet’s bright dark eyes flashing 
on her from the door. 

“I’m very glad to see you; come in;” she 
said, going towards her visitor with extended 
hands. “Sit here in Aunty’s chair, by the fire.” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


57 


“I wouldn’t for the world! ” said Daisy, laugh- 
ing. u Mrs. Ogden would think it was possessed, 
if I reposed my heretical form in it a moment. 
You know she thinks I’m a sort of pagan-- ves, 
she does; so don’t shake your head. I don’t 
mean to sit down at all ; I came for you, to take 
a long walk with me, and I’m not going without 
you.” 

u Won’t you please excuse me to-day, and 
spend the morning with me?” 

u Impossible! I should simply die in a heated 
room, with all that I have on my mind. I’m in 
a peck of worries — in a scrape, in fact — and I 
want to tell you about it. ’ ’ 

u Oh, dear Daisy, I’d much rather you would 
not. I’m real sorry that you have anything to 
worry you, but I’m afraid I shall not be able to 
help you; I never was” — 

“You were never in a scrape yourself,” inter- 
terrupted Daisy, u that’s the reason I want to 
make a confidant of you. People who are in 
the habit of getting into scrapes themselves, 
don’t care about helping their friends when they 
fall into one. Come now! ” 

There was no withstanding a will like this, 
and Ada reluctantly consented to her wishes. 

“ You’re a dear, sweet child!” said Daisy, 
throwing her arm around her and kissing her as 
she started to get on her things. 

“If you’ll only be satisfied for me to walk 
with you, without telling me anything, Daisy,” 
she pleaded, u I shall be delighted.” 


5 § 


ADA’S TRUST. 


u What a little coward you are, Ada! I know 
you’ll think it’s awful, but how can it hurt you 
to hear what it will be a comfort for me to tell ? 
Go on and get your wraps, that’s a dear girl! ” 
And Ada obeyed with a sinking heart, not know- 
ing what she might have to listen to, or whether 
or not she was to be drawn into some complica- 
tion which, if not u a scrape,” might turn out to 
be very disagreeable. 

The air was fine and the sky cloudless, and the 
two girls chatted pleasantly on indifferent mat- 
ters until they had passed the Monument, and 
were outside the city limits, where the grand old 
woods of Howard’s Park stretched in one direc- 
tion, and on the other a view of the picturesque 
city, its harbor, shipping, and the river. There 
were no houses or streets then on these beautiful 
heights, where, a little later, a city of palaces 
sprung up. Boulders of granite cropped out 
here and there, and upon one of these Daisy 
Garnet proposed they should sit down to rest. 

u Now, for it, Ada,” she began; “it was all in 
a pure spirit of fun, you know, in the beginning. 
Do you remember Frank Chapman? he came 
with me one day to see you. Well, thinking to 
have great fun, he answered a c personal ’ that he 
saw in a New York paper, inviting some young 
lady to a correspondence with a view to matri- 
mony, the writer giving name and address. 
Frank writes a fine, beautiful hand, and what 
should he do but answer it, signing himself 


ADA’S TRUST. 


59 


Alice, and soon a brisk lover-like correspondence 
was struck up. He made me his confidant, and 
I helped him to write his ‘Alice’ letters, which 
were very properly and delicately worded. Be- 
fore long it became evident that the correspond- 
ent at the other end of the line was getting very 
serious and w r as in honorable earnest. He finally 
wrote begging ‘Alice’ to send her photograph. 
Frank was at his wits’ end; he couldn’t send his 
own, for fear the fellow would come on and shoot 
him for carrying matters so far. Then he had 
the cool audacity to ask me to give him one of 
mine, which I declined to do. He determined 
to drop the whole thing, but another letter came, 
and another, begging for a photograph of ‘Alice, ’ 
until he began to see fun in it again, and after 
getting me to help him out one night with 
another letter, he rushed down-town, bought a 
handful of photographs at a little shop on Holli- 
day Street, and, scarcely looking at them, stuffed 
one into the letter, tore the rest of them up, and 
went on to the post-office. The end of it all is, 
that the gentleman is coming on to see ‘Alice’ 
and ask her in marriage. He signs his own 
proper name, and it turns out that he is the 
brother of Mr. Mercer, the leading lawyer of 
Baltimore! I’m sure we shall be found out, and 
then — oh, dear! — papa will never forgive me on 
eaith. What would you do, Ada?” 

“I never heard of such a thing in my life,” 
said Ada, pale with astonishment. “But there’s 


6o 


ADA’S TRUST. 


only one way I can see out of it, and that is foi 
Mr. Chapman to write, or go to the gentleman 
he has fooled so, and make a candid confession 
of everything. It seems to me that he himself 
invited what has befallen him, by putting that 
silly advertisement in the paper, and I can’t say 
that I don’t think he deserves what has hap- 
pened. ’ ’ 

“That is exactly what I think. ’ ’ 

“But that doesn’t excuse you, Daisy, in en- 
couraging your friend as you did, and even help- 
ing. The most culpable part of the whole affair, 
I think, is sending the photograph of a young 
girl, in such a way, to a strange man, ’ ’ said Ada, 
gravely. 

“They were fancy pictures, the shopkeeper 
said, taken from paintings and engravings,” re- 
plied Daisy; “it would have been dreadful had it 
not been so.” 

“I’m glad to hear that. I don’t know how to 
advise you, Daisy. I am really sorry for you; 
but I think it was wrong altogether for you to 
have any hand in the affair.” 

“Wouldn’t it be romantic if the goose should 
come on and fall in love with me!” said Daisy 
Garnet, with a light laugh. “Come, little mother, 
let’s go home.” 

It was altogether a new phase of life which 
had been presented to Ada — one that she could 
not reconcile with her ideas of right, of woman- 
liness or honor — and she was very silent on their 


ADA’S TRUST. 


61 


way home. She loved the bright, warm-hearted 
girl at her side, and could but think her fault 
was the outcome of exuberance of spirits and a 
reekless love of fun, instead of anything radically 
defective in principle. 

u Ada, don’t say anything to Mrs. Ogden about 
what I have told you,” said Daisy, when they 
reached home; “if you do, she’ll never let you 
speak to me again.” 

4 ‘ I will not speak of it, I assure you, Daisy ; 
but do be careful, won’t you?” 

“I’ll think of it, after this blows over. If 
there’s an earthquake, though, I shall go out as 
a missionary to the Cannibal Islands,” said the 
incorrigible girl, with a merry laugh. “Good 
bye, sweetheart, good bye.” 

Ada Moore would have laughed too, if she 
could have dismissed from her mind the story 
Daisy had just told her. Why should it have 
made such an impression upon her? How could 
it affect her, whatever way it ended? She, al- 
most petulantly, wished that Daisy had not 
forced the affair into her confidence. 


02 


ADA’S TRUST, 


CHAPTER V. 

EACH HEART KNOWETH ITS BITTERNESS. 

To a noble nature, disappointment in any 
cherished plan, especially if it is one in which 
the most sacred affections find place, means 
trial; but if with the disappointment there is an 
awakening to the fact that one whom your gen- 
erous mind endowed with every virtue under 
the sun, in whom you thought there was not a 
possibility of being deceived, suddenly proves 
unworthy of your trust, the sting is a thousand 
times worse than the disappointment. This was 
the case with Ada. Sometimes the trust she 
had at first vaunted in Maurice Talbot was 
shaken, and she was tempted to think the worst 
of him. U I have faith to believe, though,” she 
always ended, when thinking it all over, u that 
everything will be cleared up one of these 
days; then, if he has good reason to show for his 
strange conduct, I shall not — I think I shall not 
— be slow to forgive. But there’s one thing, 
however it may turn out, that I do not see how 
I can ever excuse — his not coming to tell me 
frankly what the trouble was, thereby giving me 
an opportunity to defend myself — as if I had 
need to defend myself!” she said aloud, raising 


ADA’S TRUST. 


6 3 

her head erect, with a quick flash of her dark 
eyes. She was very reticent about his singular 
conduct, and so was Mrs. Ogden, through fear 
of giving her pain, although never a day passed 
that many wearisome conjectures and thoughts 
did not suggest themselves to her mind, which, 
after going round and round in a circle, ended 
just where they had begun, without having shed 
a single ray of light upon it. And so it came to 
pass that his name was never mentioned between 
them. Ada found quite enough in her social 
and other duties to occupy her; she was fond of 
reading, of music, of her young friends, who 
were often with her; she had no time for brood- 
ing, and would not have yielded to its soporific, 
enervating spell, if she had. That she felt the 
injustice and sting of her hidden pain, need not 
be doubted — a pain which to a true, pure woman, 
is almost intolerable; but there was nothing she 
could do except wait, and many of us know how 
wearing it is to wait for that which may or may 
not ever come. Had she been a mere worldling, 
her trial would have been hard for her; but she 
knew where to go for help, and her devout soul 
was not slow to seek the refuge which the 

o 

Church, with its treasury of graces, ever holds 
open for the weary and sorrowful, where she 
could pour out her grief, and bare her wound, 
assured of divine pity, and, in time, of a healing 

balm. 

Mrs. Ogden fancied that at times her eyes 


64 


ADA’S TRUST. 


were heavy, that the brightness was going out 
of them, and that there was a sadder expression 
about her lovely mouth than nature had already 
given it, and — yes — the rose-tint had paled in 
her cheeks. But what could she do, except 
offer daily prayers and tears to the Blessed Virgin 
for her darling, who was bearing her cross in 
such brave silence? How often she longed to 
take her in her arms, and, holding her close to 
her breast, tell her how her heart ached for her; 
and for her help tell her also how she herself had 
once suffered a more bitter trial, through a man’s 
faithlessness, which it had taken years for her to 
recover from and forgive. Had Ada been only 
a friend, had she been any other than just what 
she was, Mrs. Ogden could have imparted to her 
that episode of trial that had so shadowed her 
young life; but this was made impossible by the 
fact that the man who had wrought her such 
sorrow was the girl’s own father, that father 
whom she loved with the rarest and most devoted 
affection a daughter could feel for a parent she 
regarded as the noblest and best of humankind. 
She felt, truly enough, that it would require the 
courage of an iconoclast to destroy a shrine 
wherein such sacred earthly memories were gar- 
nered up. But there is no reason, dear reader, 
why I should not tell you something of trials 
which were accepted in a noble spirit of sacrifice, 
and borne with a patience and courage which, 
by Heaven’s favor, brought her at last a peace 
unembittered by self-reproach or regrets. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


65 


The year before Austin Moore — Ada’s father 
* — graduated at Yale, he came home to spend the 
vacation, instead of travelling as he usually did. 
He had a tall, well-formed, muscular figure, fine 
features full of intelligence, genial simple man- 
ners, which did not lack a certain dignity, and 
his reputation for good scholarship and high 
standing in his classes at college had preceded 
his return. But, best of all, he had passed 
through the ordeal of a godless education, so far, 
without hurt to his religious principles, or any 
undermining of his faith — a point on which he 
had remained as firm as a rock — to the great joy 
of his parents and their large circle of Catholic 
friends. Among the latter was the family of 
Mr. Darrall, a wealthy retired merchant, who 
had two daughters and a son. Mary, the eldest 
of this trio , had just finished her education and 
graduated with eclat at a Convent of the Sacred 
Heart. Agnes was still at school, and their 
brother was at a German university. Mary Dar- 
rall was in all the fresh loveliness of her young 
womanhood, very accomplished, and blessed with 
one of those happy, blithe dispositions which 
made a cheerful atmosphere around her, wher- 
ever she was, or whatever she might be doing. 
Austin Moore had not seen her since she was a 
shy, awkward, half-grown girl, on whom noth- 
ing could be made to fit or look well, and who 
was so possessed with a miserable feeling of man - 
vaise honte that her countenance wore a fright- 
3 


66 


ADA’S TRUST. 


ened, discontented look, that did not add any at- 
traction to a thin face, out of which looked a 
pair of great, staring eyes. But a few years had 
wrought a wonderful transformation; the U ugly 
duck”* had grown to be a beautiful “swan,” 
and between his astonishment and admiration, 
Austin Moore was at once captivated, thence, 
by an easy stage, very much in love, and it was 
not long before he declared himself, and offered 
his hand to Mary Darrall, who, without pretence 
of coyness, and actuated by her own innate 
frankness and sincerity, did not repulse him. 
There was that true, noble womanliness in her 
nature which could not tolerate the thought of 
trifling with an honest love — as a cat plays with 
a mouse she has just caught, before killing it — 
just to show her power and gratify her own van- 
ity; and, after testing her own heart sufficiently, 
she gave him the answer he hoped for. Their 
parents approved, and their engagement was 
duly announced. Every one — contrary to the 
usual way of the world on such occasions — gave 
approval, and thought it a most suitable match 
in every particular, and, both being favorites, 
no one envied their happiners. They were not 
to be married for two years, this being the one 
hard condition Mr. Darrall imposed on giving 
his consent; he thought it wiser that Austin 
Moore should complete his college course, and 


*Hans Andersen’s Story of the “Ugly Duck.” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


67 


have time to settle down to the management of 
a large landed estate he owned, a short distance 
from the city, before taking to himself a wife. 
Mr. Darrall had also another and better reason, 
which he, wisely enough, did not name. lie 
had a keen natural insight into character, and 
had discerned in Austin Moore’s, under all his 
really fine qualities, an unsteadiness of will or 
purpose; he could scarcely define it, but it was a 
wavering something, that time, with the disci- 
pline of study, and the incentive he now had, 
might, and he hoped would, effectually cure. 
The young man argued against so long an en- 
gagement, that there was no necessity apparent 
for it. If Mr. Darrall could have shown suffi- 
cient reason for it, he would have submitted 
willingly; but as he was simply told that the 
proposed condition was unalterable, he yielded 
the point with poor grace, and with a sense of 
having been defrauded out of a year’s happiness. 
But the few short weeks left before he must re- 
turn to Yale were passed as in a dream ; in 
daily companionship with Mary, he learned the 
true beauty and strength of her character, her 
great intelligence, her purity of mind, and how 
truly the spirit of her holy faith was the guiding 
motive of her life. What might he not hope for 
and aspire to, blessed with the love of such a 
woman! “ It is not true,” said Mary, the day 
they parted, “that the course of true love ne’ei 
runs smooth ; ours is without ripple or shadow, 
Austin. ’ ’ 


68 


ADA’S TRUST. 


u Except those two long years to wait, it is. 
Well, every day will shorten the time — that’s 
one comfort, Mary; and then we have before ns 
the yet unknown happiness of writing to each 
other. Some say that is the very idealization of 
love, the speaking of heart to heart, in language 
that the shy lips dare not utter,” he said, fondly. 

The following summer the Darralls went to 
the coast of Maine, stopping on the way to be 
present at the distribution at the Convent of the 
Ladies of the Sacred Heart, where Agnes was 
being educated, and she, loaded with well-earned 
scholastic honors, • accompanied them, full of 
delightful anticipations of her summer sojourn 
near the ocean, which her imagination had pic- 
tured as something so vast, so full of unrest, mys- 
tery and change, so wild, and yet so beautiful, as 
almost to terrify and awe her by the mere thought 
of its grandeur. Agnes Darrall was in every re- 
spect a contrast to Mary. She was as fair as a 
vision, gentle, clinging, caressing in her nature; 
but under all was a latent determined will, which 
any obstacle placed in the path of her object 
would develop. She was beautiful, almost be- 
wilderingly so, with her perfect complexion, her 
large, violet-lined eyes, and fine, wavy, golden 
hair. A straight delicate nose, a perfect mouth, 
a dimpled chin, a tall graceful form, constituted 
the charms of her fatal beauty — a beauty of which 
she seemed to be as unconscious as a little child, 
thereby adding a new fascination to it. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


69 


A little after midsummer, Austin Moore, hav- 
ing graduated with honor to himself, joined the 
Darralls at Mt. Desert, where, having a large 
cottage, they enjoyed all the comforts, combined 
with the privacy, of home. Mr. and Mrs. Dar- 
rall were out driving when he came; Mary was 
sitting on the porch, half hidden by the vines 
that clambered over it, intent on the page she 
was reading, and was not aware of his presence 
until she heard him say “Mary,” then, starting 
round, she saw him standing only a few steps 
from her. That her greeting was warm and joy- 
ous need not be told, and that he was happy to 
be so welcomed can be imagined. She told him 
there was 110 one at home except Agnes and her- 
self, but that he must come in and let them get 
him some refreshments, and make much of him 
after his long walk, and that he and Agnes must 
know each other and be the best of friends. 
Mary took his hat and umbrella, helped him to 
draw off his linen duster, and then sent him into 
the pretty drawing-room, while she hung them 
on the hat-rack. She then ran up-stairs to fetch 
her sister, who never looked lovelier than at that 
moment, in a soft diaphanous white dress, sim- 
ple and flowing, with a knot of pale-blue ribbon 
on her breast, and a sash of the same around her 
waist. “He has come — Austin has come,” she 
said. “ I wasn’t at all thinking of him — then ,” 
she added, laughing; “and there he was, all at 
once, like a ghost. Come, darling, lie’s waiting 


7 o 


ADA’S TRUST. 


\ 

to see you. I ought not to have said ‘like a 
ghost;’ it has made me shiver.” And so it had, 
as if a heavy drop of cold water had dropped 
from above on the back of her neck — one of those 
sudden coincidences, or, as some might call 
them, previsions, which not infrequently enter 
into the experience of people. She introduced 
Agnes to her lover, leading in the beautiful 
creature by the hand with a proud look, and she 
was more than gratified when she saw his ex- 
pression of blended amazement and admiration 
at such an unexpected vision of loveliness and 
grace. That was the beginning. I should go 
beyond the limits of my story, and make too 
great a digression, if I told all that happened that 
summer up there on the coast of Maine — the first 
flicker of the shadow, the gradual, slow, sure 
change, the alienation and transfer of affection 
that satisfied one selfish heart, and nearly broke 
another as noble as it was pure. In plain words, 
the engagement between Austin Moore and Mary 
Darrall was broken off by herself as soon as she 
discovered, with a woman’s keen perception, that 
her sister, without perhaps meaning it, had won 
him away from her. One evening when they 
were alone on the shore where she had asked 
him to go with her, with a gray, misty fog all 
about them, and the air full of the sound of the 
surf thundering against the rocks telling of 
storms and wrecks, she told him all that she had 
discovered, all that was in her heart. It was 


V 


ADA’S TRUST. 7 1 

Mary Darrall’s way to be frank; subterfuge and 
concealment were impossible to a nature like 
hers. In vain he protested that she was mis- 
taken, and to prove it he said he would go away 
in the morning, still holding her to her promise 
to marry him. In vain he reproached her for 
being hard on him, and suspicious of his honor, 
and deceived by his brotherly attentions to her 
own sister; she was firm, and in reply to his 
assertion that the change was in herself, and not 
in him, she had but one reply, which was, that all 
was irrevocably over between them. Generously 
and unselfishly she released him, shielding him 
from all blame, and allowing her parents and 
others to believe that the change was indeed in 
her instead of in him. She only said, when at 
first they expostulated with her: u It is no use, 
dear papa and mamma, to discuss the matter. I 
have discovered — thank God, in time! — that 
which would have made my marriage with 
Austin Moore a very miserable one.” 

4 c If that is the case, Mary, then I too have 
reason to thank God for insisting on the delay of 
two years. I did not do it without a reason. I 
don’t exactly understand how it is, but you say 
it is your own choice for it to be as it is, there- 
fore we can’t throw Austin off.” 

u Oh no! no! dear papa, do not do that. He 
could not help it, and I do not blame him — how 
could I ? ” she said, earnestlv. 

7 j 

And thev did not press her farther, but be- 


72 


ADA’S TRUST. 


tween themselves could not help believing that 
in some way Mary’s imagination had played her 
false. Austin Moore went away to the White 
Mountains. Into Agnes Darrall’ s beautiful face 
there had gradually come a scarcely veiled look 
of mingled avoidance and defiance, like what 
one sometimes sees in the countenance of a child 
who, conscious of some secret fault deserving 
punishment, is yet determined to evade discov- 
ery. She shrunk from Mary’s companionship 
now, and although no word had passed between 
them relative to Austin Moore, she knew with- 
out being told — and she was the only one who 
did — that she was the cause of the estrangement, 
and that for her sake her sister had sacrificed her 
own happiness. It touched and pained her to 
know this, for she loved Mary perhaps better 
than she did any one else; but her nature was too 
shallow and selfish even to wish that things had 
turned out differently, while the idea of breaking 
the evil spell her beauty had wrought, did not 
even enter her mind. Mr. and Mrs. Darrall felt 
that a change had come over their little home 
circle. “It is the east wind,” said Mr. Darrall, 
“and these miserable fogs, wife; they really are 
enough to make one melancholy mad. We had 
better go home. I think of the noise of our 
streets as music, compared with that everlasting 
boom and roar of the surf.” 

“Yes, it is not cheerful, I confess. The sun- 
shine and blue skies make a great difference. 1 


ADA’S TRUST. 


73 


can’t help thinking of wrecks and drowning 
people, all the time. I’d like to get home, too,” 
said Mrs. Darrall, drawing her shawl closer, with 
a little shiver. She did not know — so blind ire 
we — of the fair hope-laden barque that had gone 
to wreck and sunk out of sight so near her. 

Before the Darralls had completed their pre- 
parations to go back to their more southern 
home, some friends, who were going abroad, in- 
vited Mary to accompany them; and, as she ex- 
pressed a wish to do so, and her mother had 
noticed that she was sometimes pale and languid, 
Mr. Darrall thought, with his wife, that a change 
of climate and scene, with all the witchery of 
foreign travel, would restore her, and consented 
readily. The tour was to be a prolonged one; 
they intended to go outside the beaten roads of 
travel, after seeing what was most celebrated in 
them, to visit wonderful ruins, ancient works of 
art, and get acquainted with the ways and habits 
of the people through whose countries they 
travelled, to hear their ‘ ‘ folk-lore ’ ’ and explore 
the scenery of places scarcely known, except in 
history, and ballads of romance. They had been 
gone three years, and their plans were all de- 
lightfully realized. The only change Mary 
found in her home when she returned, was that 
Agnes and Austin Moore had been married a 
year, and were living happily at ‘Crowfield,’ 
with the world before them. Mary more than 
ever felt that she had done right in the sacrifice 


74 


ADA’S TRUST. 


she had made, and, although the hurt of it was 
not quite healed, she had no regrets, no wistful 
longings that she had acted otherwise. As when 
a storm drives one with quick impetus towards 
the shelter of one’s own home, so her sorrow had 
ever driven her nearer and nearer to Him who 
has the only balm for the wounded heart, and 
she found consolation in doing good whenever 
and wherever her hand found it to do. There 
was no cold or unkindly feeling on her part to- 
wards the family at ‘ Crowfield ’ ; she visited them, 
and welcomed them with sincere greeting when 
they came to her father’s house; she had, with 
God’s help, conquered self, and in their after in- 
tercourse with each other she was the friend to 
whom they confided their difficulties of whatever 
sort, and whose counsel they both sought and 
most confided in. Their child died in her arms, 
and it was she who nursed the fragile, beautiful 
mother, through a long illness, back to health. 
After a few years, having lost both parents, 
which was a bitter trial to her, and there being 
no reason why she should remain where every- 
thing reminded her of them and kept alive an 
unavailing grief, she yielded to the wishes of her 
brother, Lindsey Darrall, who had returned from 
Germany, to travel with him through the length 
and breadth of their own laud, and having put 
her house in order, she closed it and departed. 
While traveling, they formed the acquaintance 
of Mr. Ogden, a gentleman of fine intelligence 


ADA’S TRUST. 


75 


and pleasing manners. Like themselves, he was 
a Catholic, and with their permission he joined 
them, “being very lonely,” he told them, “and 
roving about with but little purpose, except to 
get rid of more spare time than he knew what 
to do with.” He was won by Mary DarralTs 
quiet, pleasant manner; then her rare intelli- * 
gence, which was unobtrusive and without ped- 
antry, her practical, good common sense, and 
her beauty, which had matured without fading, 
so charmed him, that he found himself — at 
nearly middle age, with streaks of white in his 
hair and whiskers — really and very seriously in 
love for the first time in his life. He offered 
himself, and was rejected. After an interval he 
again offered his hand, but with the same result. 
Not yet defeated, he determined to make one 
more effort to win the only woman he had ever 
felt willing to trust his happiness to, and who, 
he now knew, was necessary to it. Then she 
bared the secret of her life to him, thinking it 
would be conclusive; but it only confirmed his 
high opinion of her, and made him still more 
desirous to win a person even more noble than 
he had supposed. He urged his suit, and she 
finally yielded. After marriage, she found in 
the companionship and confidence of her hus- 
band, in his fine qualities of mind and heart, a 
quiet contentment very near akin to happiness. 
Both Catholics, their marriage was indeed a sac- 
ramental one, and when, after fifteen years spent 


76 


ADA’S TRUST. 


together without a discordant feeling between 
them to mar its harmony, Mr. Ogden died, she 
felt desolate indeed — very much alone, her 
brother having gone abroad again, to travel in 
the Hast, while Agnes, whose health was failing, 
had been taken by her husband to southern 
Europe in the hope that the change would re- 
store her. But Mrs. Ogden had a sacred duty 
before her, which gave her no time for useless 
grief; she had to live out her husband’s life with 
her own, by completing certain plans as he had 
arranged them; governing all she did by the 
rule of his approval, so well did she know the 
spirit and motive of all his actions when living. 
As an Industrial School for girls formed one of 
his plans, and Mrs. Ogden was particularly in- 
terested in its success, it may be believed that 
she was never at a loss for occupation. And 
with her heart fixed where hope realizes its only 
true fruition, her days passed calmly on. But a 
time came when her heart was once more to be 
stirred to its depths by having the past recalled 
to her in a way for which she was totally un- 
prepared. Her sister, Agnes Moore, had died 
of a slow, wasting lung disease, within two 
years after reaching Italy, leaving the little 
daughter she had taken with her — Ada — as a 
sacred trust to her husband. 

One morning a letter reached Mrs. Ogden 
bearing a foreign postmark, and directed in an 
almost illegible hand. There were several stamps 


ADA’S TRUST. 


77 


upon it, showing how far astray it had travelled. 
As most persons do when they get a strange 
letter, she examined it closely on both sides, 
tried to find something familiar in the handwrit- 
ing, and finally opened it. It was from Austin 
Moore, penned by his own feeble hand. He 
told her that he was dying, and implored her to 
come, that his young daughter might not be left 
without protection in a strange land. A friend 
would meet her at Naples, and conduct her to 
his villa outside the city, he wrote, adding: 
“Lose no time, Mary, or it will be too late.” 
This was an appeal which, with her high prin- 
ciples of duty, she dared not set aside; besides 
her heart yearned with great tenderness towards 
her sister’s child, who would soon have no 
friend on earth but herself to look to for love 
and protection. She immediately began to make 
preparations to start at the earliest possible mo- 
ment, and at the end of three days had begun 
her journey, accompanied by a trusty servant. 
Having arrived safely at Naples, she found no 
difficulty. Austin Moore’s friend, an American 
who had long been a resident of the city, was 
waiting for her, and conducted her without de- 
lay to 4 Alabama Villa,’ the fanciful name which 
was given it years before when Austin Moore 
first purchased it, and made it the home of his 
wife and child, not only in honor of his native 
land, but because it meant: “Here we rest.” 

To Mrs. Ogden’s quick, anxious inquiries as 


7S 


ADA’S TRUST. 


to her brother-in-lav/’s health, Mr. Tucker re- 
plied: u He is sinking rapidly. I think it is 
only a question of a few days. I am thankful 
that you are here.” Mrs. Ogden’s heart was 
very sad. Lover of nature and beautiful scenery 
as she was, she did not more than glance — as the 
carriage ascended the slope of the mountain 
where the villa was situated — at the distant view 
of the sunlit bay through one opening in the 
trees; at Cspri and Ischia lying blue and dream- 
like on the waves, through another; her thoughts 
were so full only of those to whom she was 
going. She found Austin Moore so wasted and 
pale that she would never have known him. He 
pressed her hand feebly, and whispered an artic- 
ulate welcome while tears rolled over his wasted 
cheeks. After recovering from the agitation 
caused by their meeting, he sent her to Ada, 
who was waiting in the drawing-room to em- 
brace and welcome her aunt and conduct her to 
her apartments. Mrs. Ogden folded the fair 
young creature to her breast, her heart overflow- 
ing with affection and tender sympathy. She 
felt that God had at last given her a child who 
would be a consolation and blessing to her de- 
clining years; while Ada, impressed by her 
aunt’s sweet, noble countenance, and the sincere 
affection of her manner and words, assured her- 
self that she had indeed found a mother in whose 
arms she could find shelter when the trial she so 
much dreaded should come. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


79 


After partaking of some light refreshment, 
and lying down to try and get an hour’s sleep 
aftei the fatigues of her journey, Mrs. Ogden 
was surprised when she opened her eyes to see 
the moonlight shining through her windows. 
Reproaching herself for sleeping so long, she 
quickly arose, bathed her face, put on a soft, 
gray wrapper that neither rustled nor trailed, and 
hastened down to the poor invalid, who lay, with 
the fever-light burning in his great, hollow eyes, 
waiting and watching for her. He held out his 
hand, which she folded in both her own, and 
knelt by his couch to save him over-exertion in 
speaking by bringing her face nearer the level 
of his. 

‘ 1 1 made Tucker go to bed a while ago. Mat- 
teo, my good nurse, is asleep; I did not need 
him, and I knew you would come, Mary,” he 
said, “in low, weak tones. U I wish to say a few 
words that I cannot die easily without saying. 
No, it won’t tire me; the fever gives me 
strength, but my throat is a little husky ; a 
spoonful of that currant jelly will relieve it.” 
Then little by little he told her that which added 
another bitter drop to the cup she had so often 
drank from. He spoke of his marriage, and see- 
ing that she looked distressed, he said: u It is 
the last kindness you can do me, Mary, to hear 
me out. I will say nothing of blame to any ex- 
cept myself. My poor Agnes was a beautiful, 
wilful child, and it was not long after our mar- 


8o 


ADA’S TRUST. 


riage that I found out the fatal mistake I had 
made. I did not even love her; I had mistaken 
a poetic fancy, a sensuous love of the beautiful, 
for that other, higher, truer sentiment that en- 
dures. But she never knew. She was very ex- 
acting, and I never thwarted her. She was not 
the guilty one. I was alone to blame, and I 
vowed that she should never have a pang I could 
shield her from.” 

u Thank you for that,” said Mrs. Ogden, 
gently. 

u After the glamour of my wild fancy had 
passed, I found my own true self, Mary, and 
knew that I had loved you first, only, and last. 
God be merciful to me! I suffered a living 
death, when, to all appearance, there was only 
happiness in my lot. Poor, poor Agnes! she 
knows now how true I was to her throughout 
the bitter ordeal, and forgives. She blessed me 
with her last breath, and thanked me for having 
been patient and kind, I had tried to be so. 
Can you too forgive me, Mary?” 

u You were forgiven long ago, my brother! 
Do not, then, refer to the past again,” she said, in 
firm, gentle tones; then, leaning over, she kissed 
his pale, hot forehead. 

( ‘ That is the seal of your forgiveness, Mary. 
I would never have referred to the past but for 
the fact that we are both free, and I wanted you 
to know the truth and understand that I was 
weak, instead of dishonorable, and have suffered 


ADA’S TRUST. 


81 


for my fault. Promise to be a mother to my 
child, Mary. I have by my will left her to your 
sole guardianship, and also named you as admin- 
istratrix of my estate. She is a dear, pure child; 
make her like yourself, it is all I desire. You 
have solaced iny last hours, Mary; God has per- 
mitted this to be, in mercy to a poor heart which 
has done its best to expiate a great fault. The 
passion wave of life has been ebbing slowly, 
slowly away for a weary while, and now with 
your forgiveness I am sure that God will not re- 
fuse His. I received the last Sacraments this 
morning, and I — hope. A strange peace is steal- 
ing into my heart ! Hold my hand, Mary, for I 
believe I am in the valley of the shadow of 
death. It is all so strange and restful.” 

u Think only of Him who has promised to go 
with you; whose rod and staff shall comfort 
you,” she said, while her tears fell fast. She lit 
the blessed candle that stood with his crucifix on 
a bracket fastened to the wall at his bedside, 
and, again kneeling, held his hand while she 
read the last prayers. But the end was not yet. 
A faintness, then a slumber stole over him, from 
which he awoke with a sense of refreshment. 
He lingered a few days longer, blessed by the 
tender care of his daughter and his friends, and 
fortified by the mighty help the Church gives 
her children when they are passing from time to 
eternity, until, after a sharp, short agony, Aus- 
tin Moore breathed his last. 

3 * 


ADA’S TRUST. 



CHAPTER VI. 

TRYING. 

“If I had only brought her home after her 
father died, instead of taking her on that long 
journey through Europe in the hope of diverting 
her mind from her great loss, she would not have 
met Maurice Talbot! How little did I dream, 
my poor darling, that a trial akin to my own was 
to be repeated in your young life!” mused Mrs. 
Ogden one evening, when she was quite alone in 
the sitting-room. 

Twilight had darkened the apartment; her 
needlework dropped from her fingers; rain beat 
against the windows with that persistent monot- 
onous sound which makes some persons very 
sad, others only sleepy; and the dull glow of the 
fire in the grate, burning low, revealed only such 
objects as were nearest to it, leaving all els^ in 
deep shadow. 

‘ ‘Ah ! how I wish something might be done to 
clear up this trouble! but I see no help for it.” 
Mrs. Ogden sighed, and drew out her chaplet to 
offer a decade for Ada; it was all she could do, 
and the best; for patience and trust under 
injuries which are inexplicable, form a lesson 
most difficult for the human heart, with its sen- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


8 3 


sitive pride, self-love, and weakness; but hardest 
of all — even should endurance come — is the 
effort to divest it of uncharitableness and rash 
judgments. Then prayer becomes the poor 
heart’s only remedy, as Mrs. Ogden had already 
experienced in her own life. 

Presently the silence was broken by the ap- 
proach of light footsteps, and looking up she saw 
Ada standing in the door, as if uncertain 
whether to enter or to turn back. Mrs. Ogden 
knew she was looking for her. 

u Come in, my darling,” she said, softly. 

4 ‘ Dear aunty ! Why are you sitting here all 
alone in the dark? I could not see you, and was 
wondering what had become of you.” By this 
time she was on a tabouret at Mrs. Ogden’s feet, 
leaning upon her lap. U I have got something 
very nice tell you,” she said. 

u What is it?” quickly asked Mrs. Ogden; her 
thoughts — woman-like — reverting to the re- 
creant lover, while she caressingly smoothed 
Ada’s cheek. 

u Oh! it is something I have been wishing for 
so much, but did not hope for; it is such an 
honor, and I am so young. I have just got the 
loveliest note from Cousin John, informing me 
that one of the sanctuary ladies had been obliged 
to resign on account of her health, and that I 
was unanimously elected, to-day, to fill her 
place, if willing. Oh, aunty! it will make me 
very happy to serve, if you think I may accept.” 


8 4 


ada’s trust. 


“Why should you not, my dearest one? Youi 
love for the holy places, and for Him whose 
presence fills them, will make your service one 
of great happiness, and doubtless be acceptable 
to Him. Then, your beautiful taste in the 
arrangement of flowers will be of great help. I 
am very glad.” 

“I will not expect to do that just at first, as 
I am the youngest member; but there’ll be 
enough else for me to do, washing the fine china 
vases, and cleaning the silver candlesticks, 
sweeping the sanctuary, dusting, and oh, ever 
so many other little things — no matter what, foi 
it will all, you know, be for the honor of 0111 
Lord. But I must let the Archbishop know how 
happy I am in accepting the offered privilege, 
and shall send the note right away.” 

“I think, my child, it will fcetter for you to 
see him in the morning, after the nine o’clock 
Mass; then you can say all that’s in your heart 
about it, which I know will please him better 
than a note; unless his messenger is waiting for 
an answer.” 

“No; he left the note at the door, and went 
away. Yes; I will do as you say; then I can tell 
Cousin John how happy he has made me, for I 
am as sure as of anything, that he is at the- bot- 
tom of it, as none of the sanctuary ladies know 
me. Now, aunty, I’ll tell you about my visits 
to Mr. Reid and Mrs. Carson — the dear old 
souls! — but shall I light the astral lamp first?” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


85 


il Not unless the darkness oppresses you, dar- 
ling. I like this; it is a great rest, after the 
glare of day.” 

“No; I don’t mind it in the least, aunty; but 
I’ll just give that lump of coal a poke, and set it 
flickering,” she said, suiting the action to the 
word, while the red flames and blue leaped up 
and sent the shadows off in wild, elfish dances 
over the walls. She watched them a moment, 
with a little merry laugh which gladdened Mrs. 
Ogden’s heart to hear, then began: “I found 
both your old friends in bed with gout, and 
swathed up to their chins in flannels and things, 
as comfortable as their pains would allow. Mr. 
Reid took great pains to impress upon my mind 
that the gout is a disease peculiar to gentlefolk, 
‘the only thing’ left in these levelling days,’ he 
said, ‘to distinguish them from the common 
herd, and his only ancestral inheritance.’ Then 
he showed me with great pride the chalk-stones 
on his finger-joints, calling them his family jew- 
els! It really — the gout I mean — seems to give 
him great comfort, as being a mark of good 
birth, which helps him to bear its pains like a 
Trojan. He was compelled to give up knee- 
breeches and hair-powder, he said, ‘but there’s 
no power that can take from a gentleman his 
gout.’ Then I read the paper to him, set the 
flowers where he could see them, left the jelly on 
the table near him, and came away loaded with 
messages to you — his love and thanks, you know, 
aunty.” 


86 


ADA'S TRUST. 


“His harmless pride is constitutional, like his 
gout, dear, gentle old man! You told him I 
would go to see him to-morrow?” said Mrs. 
Ogden, amused by Ada’s description. 

“Yes. Then I went to see Mrs. Carson. I 
don’t think she takes as much pride in her gout, 
aunty, as Mr. Reid does. In fact, it seemed to 
exasperate her in a very peculiar way. She 
nodded her head to me, and told me to sit down. 
‘I can’t even shake hands with you, child,’ she 
said; Any hands don’t bear the lightest touch, 
because my fathers did eat sour grapes and have 
set my life on edge. High ancestry’s mighty 
poor comfort unless there’s something to support 
it, and I wish from my heart that papa and grand- 
papa had been butchers ; then I should not have 
diseased blood in my veins and be as poor as a 
church-mouse. ’ ” 

‘ 1 She always talks in that way until the gout 
flits; then she forgets what gay bon-vivants and 
spendthrifts her ancestors were, and takes the 
same old pride in them. Then ? ’ ’ 

“Then, not knowing exactly what to say, 
aunty, I thought I’d try to amuse her by telling 
her about the great ball that there’s so much said 
of in the papers, and the rich dresses and the 
diamonds, and the distinguished people who were 
present. I had cut the account out of our paper, 
and remembered having rolled it up and stuffed 
it into my pocket ; so I read out the names of 
the guests. But, Aunty, while it really did re- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


87 


vive and interest her to hear about the pomps 
and vanities, she turned up her nose, and said, 
‘Every one of ’em new people!’ Then I read 
to her about the new steamship that has just 
crossed the Atlantic in twelve days. She said 
that 1 if it was true, the end of the world was at 
hand, and she hoped it might be, for men were 
getting to be too presumptuous.’ The cat hav- 
ing broken her spectacles, she got me to read a 
chapter of Thomas a Kempis for her, before I 
came away. Without her observing it, I brought 
the spectacles with me, to have a new glass set 
in. I left the little package on the foot of her 
bed, and hurried out, expecting to go to see the 
old colored aunty ; but it was pouring rain, and 
later than I thought it was, so I hurried home, 
stopping only a little while at the cathedral, and 
here I am.” 

U A well-spent day, Ada,” said Mrs. Ogden, 
fondly. 

U I am afraid I was too much amused at the 
oddities of those two dear old souls, Aunt Mary; 
but I could not help it. I meant no harm. 
Aunty, is it not more meritorious to visit and 
help the very, very humble and destitute?” 
asked Ada, gravely yet shyly. 

“I think not, my child. There are none who 
feel the stings of poverty so sorely and bitterly 
as those who have known better days; in these, 
all the instincts of organizations made more sen- 
sitive by birth and circumstance are hourly, 


88 


ADA’S TRUST. 


daily crucified. They do not know how to 
work, and 4 to beg they are ashamed;’ they ex- 
perience neglect, and have to learn the bitter 
lesson of seeing life stripped, one by one, of all 
the illusions that made it so pleasant to them. 
None can fathom the bitterness of their lot, nor 
understand how difficult it is for them to say 
‘Thy will be done.’ Yes, we should be very 
tender with them, and help without wounding, 
lest they become hard, and hedge their poor 
hearts round with such thorns of pride as will re- 
pel those who might help them, and keep out 
even grace itself.” 

U I shall not forget, Aunty — never!” 

“Come, darling, let us go down to dinner — after 
which we’ll have some music,” said Mrs. Ogden, 
rising, and still holding Ada’s hand. 

The girl was more like her former self to-night 
than she had been for weeks; she was beginning 
to see the sparkle of the jewel that — with the 
right disposition — one always finds, more or less, 
in the forehead of the ugly toad that inevitably 
comes into every life. 

A few days later Daisy Garnet ran in to see 
Ada, who could not help liking her, even while 
she did not approve of many things done by the 
affectionate, good-natured and irrepressible girl. 
Whenever she came, Ada expected to hear of 
some remarkable escapade, or audacious adven- 
ture, which she had either instigated or partici- 
pated in; things which in themselves were of no 


ADA’S TRUST-. 


89 


actual harm, but which gave rise to false impres- 
sions and evil constructions, thereby doing as 
much mischief as if the scandal originated in 
fact, and giving rise to no end of slanderous gos- 
sip. A young girl’s reputation is like fine gold, 
and she should be careful not to place herself, or 
allow others to place her, in a position which 
will cast even a momentary shadow upon it. 
Such things are often the result of thoughtless- 
ness, sometimes of recklessness, or a spirit of 
defiance to the restraints of wisely-established 
social customs; but how frequently do they re- 
sult in consequences so serious that a life-time 
of sorrow, mortification and repentance can 
scarcely atone for them! Prudery does not in- 
dicate either true modesty or innocence; it too 
often veils a too close acquaintance with evil; 
but every young heart rejoicing in its purity of 
intention, its innocence of evil, its exuberance 
of life, should be ever willing to yield ready 
obedience to the restraints of prudence, the 
“still, small voice” of conscience, and the coun- 
sels of those more experienced than themselves, 
and be sure that whenever a doubt is suggested 
as to the right or wrong of a thing, it is safe to 
abandon it. 

“I haven’t interrupted you in anything very 
serious, I hope,” said Daisy, laughing, and kiss- 
ing Ada, when, after a little delay she came into 
the drawing-room. “If I have, don’t expect me 
to apologize, for I am just dying to tell you 
something very funny.” 


9 ° 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“I am the one who should apologize; but I 
was just adding a few lines to a letter I had writ- 
ten to a friend in Italy; if I had left it, and come 
down immediately, it would have missed the 
European mail. I knew you would be generous, 
and forgive me,” replied Ada, pleasantly, as 
they both settled themselves near the bright, 
open fire. 

U I suppose you were writing to some of the 
Eady Abbesses over there, to make arrangements 
for taking the veil!” laughed the girl, never los- 
ing an opportunity to tease Ada, and thinking 
in her secret heart she was as nearly perfect as a 
human being could be — so ready are such per- 
sons to run into extremes. “But I haven’t time 
now for a word except about what brought me, ’ ’ 
she quickly added, glancing at her little jewelled 
watch and tucking it back again in its place. 
“My dear, I have had a fright that I sha’n’t get 
over for a month! But it was too delicious! I’ll 
tell you. You remember what I said about that 
correspondence, and sending a photograph, and 
all that! Well he came — Mr. Mercer — quite in 
earnest to find out his fair correspondent — who 
was cousin Charley, you know — and marry her 
if she would consent. That was the substance 
of the very last letter Charley had from him. 
But I didn’t know he had really arrived on his 
quixotic errand until I. received an invitation to 
dine with him at his brother’s, on Charles 
Street. It was quite a ceremonious affair, in- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


9 1 


eluding a number of guests. I didn’t know 
what to do; I was really frightened at the 
thought of meeting him after helping to play 
such a trick, and thought I’d send a regret; but 
papa said I must accept, and told me Charley 
was to be there, so I had to yield, perfectly 
fascinated by the peculiar situation I should be 
placed in by going. It came off yesterday even- 
ing — oh dear! — and I wore my new crimson satin, 
trimmed with mamma’s pointe de Venise , as 
yellow as saffron with age, and she let me wear 
some of her diamonds. I should have liked to 
wear them all, but she wouldn’t consent, because 
she doesn’t think it good taste for young, un- 
married ladies to wear much jewelry; so I had 
the ear-rings, a cross that ‘Jews might kiss and 
infidels adore,’ and a single Marguerite that glit- 
tered like a star among the pouffs of my hair. I 
wish you could have seen me! I felt like a con- 
spirator though, when, after being introduced to 
Mr. Mercer — who is, oh extremely handsome! — 
he led me out to dinner, and quite devoted him- 
self to me there; and after we had all returned 
to the drawing-room, Charley kept himself at a 
safe distance, leaving me to bear the brunt of the 
situation. Oh, I felt awfully mean, now and 
then, when I remembered what we had done.” 
U I am not surprised that you did; and if it 
keeps you from ever doing the like again, it will 
be a good thing,” said Ada, to whose mind the 
whole affair appeared rather serious. 


92 


ADA’S TRUST, 


“ Don’t look so solemn, my pretty little nun; 
it was all Charley’s fault. I should never have 
thought of such a thing,” said the thoughtless 
girl, with a merry laugh. 

u Mr. Mercer finds it a serious matter, I’m 
afraid. Then think of the young lady whose 
photograph was sent to him — how would she 
feel if she knew it? ’ ’ 

“Oh, bosh, Ada! If a man is such a goose as 
to spoon over a bit of pasteboard, let him! — and 
as to the girl, it is more than likely it was a 
fancy photo. I did’nt see it at all, you know.” 
U I hope it was,” said Ada, who almost won- 
dered at herself for wasting a thought over an 
affair in which she had not the least personal in- 
terest. 

“Well, my dear girl, there we were, Charley 
and I, knowing all this, and knowing only too 
well what had brought Mercer to Baltimore. I 
declare it excited me so that I felt quite wild, 
and every one complimented me on my brilliant 
looks, my sallies of wit — when, all the time, I 
was only desperate, and wasn’t conscious of half 
of what I was saying. I just rattled.” 

“How could you!” 

“I’ll tell you. I felt so awfully mean at first, 
that if I hadn’t dashed off as I did I should 
have been stupidly flat, and made myself very 
disagreeable. Oh, it was so piquant and de- 
lightful! Mr. Mercer would have been quite 
captivated, but for the romance of Cinconnue . 


ADA’S TRUST. 


93 


However, he fell in love vicariously for a friend 
of his in New York, who is going to visit Balti- 
more soon, in company with a — a — oh, yes! — a 
Mr. Maurice Talbot, who has some law matters 
to settle before our court. He does not know the 
latter gentleman except very slightly, but you 
ought to have heard him commending his friend 
to my favor; and he ended by asking my permis- 
sion to give him a letter of introduction to me. 
Of course I consented — but, good heavens? Ada, 
my dear girl, what in the world ails you ? — you 
turned so white all in a moment.” 

“Nothing — except a little pain,” said Ada, 
into whose face the color surged back as rapidly 
as it had receded. 

“I believe I have talked you nearly to death, 
Ada; and you are shocked at my wickedness, I 
know. But indeed I don’t mean a bit of harm; 
let that comfort you. Let me play for you,” 
said Daisy, going to the piano. 

“Yes, do! Your playing always casts a sort 
of spell over me. I would rather listen to your 
music than any I ever heard on the piano,” said 
Ada, glad to take refuge from the thoughts Daisy 
Garnet had so unconsciously stirred, in the med- 
ley of rare harmonies that with skilful fingers 
and brilliant execution she evoked from the keys 
of the fine instrument; harmonies which, like a 
splendid sunset, melted into the tender strains 
of a nocturne as soothing as the voices of the 
night, and as sad. 


94 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“What a weird effect those minor notes lend 
to that sort of music!” said Ada, as the music 
seemed to sigh itself to sleep. “It is strange, 
Daisy, that you who are so light-hearted seem 
to prefer this sad, dreamy music.” 

“It is the undercurrent of my nature; there 
are plenty of minor chords in my life,” said the 
girl, turning her bright face round to her friend, 
as she left the piano. “Come, now, tell me, 
like a dear little cherub, what I should do — 
about this scrape, you know.” 

“If you were a Catholic you would not need 
to ask me.” 

“But I’m not a Catholic: what then?” 

“The next best thing would be to tell the 
truth to Mr. Mercer.” 

“And have a duel between him and Charlie, 
and maybe one of them killed?” 

“Mr. Mercer, as I understand, invited the 
correspondence which is making all this trouble. 
Don’t you think he would be generous enough 
to look upon it as a joke?” 

“Yes, he invited the correspondence, and up 
to a certain point he might see it in the light of 
a joke; but don’t you see that the affair should 
have stopped the moment it grew so serious? 
After that, the fun ended, and it was clear de- 
ception.” 

“Yes, I understand. I wish you well out of 
the trouble of it, I’m sure,” said Ada, thinking 
how strange it was that Daisy Garnet, with her 


ADA’S TRUST, 


95 


cleverness and nice sense of honor, could not 
have forecast the results of such a piece of mis- 
chief, and extricated herself before things had 
gone so far. 

u Trouble! There’ll be the very mischief to 
pay if it should all come out,” said Daisy. 

The more she thought over the affair, the more 
distinctly the proportions of her imprudence 
stood out, and for the first time in her life, her 
audacious spirit quailed at its probable conse- 
quences — the exposure, the displeasure of her par- 
ents, the talk it would make, a probable duel, 
and (worst of all, she thought) the affair, exag- 
gerated and falsified to make it more sensational, 
going the rounds of the press! Little did she 
imagine the mischief it had already done, or 
perhaps repentance for her fault would have 
taken the place of dread of exposure. 

u You give me no comfort, Ada; but it’s good 
to have some one to talk to that one can trust; so 
you’ll forgive me for making a moral slop-bowl 
of you, won’t you?” 

u Oh, yes indeed!” said Ada, U I only wish I 
could help you as much as I feel sorry for you. 
Having been burnt so, I don’t think you’ll ever 
put your fingers into the fire again.” 

u Never! never! ” answered the girl, laughing. 
i{ You know, 

“ ‘When the de’il was sick, the de’il a saint would be, 
When he got well the de’il a saint was he.' 


9 ° 


ADA’S TRUST. 


But bless my soul! I nearly forgot what I came 
for. Father has invited some people to dine with 
Mr. Mercer on next Tuesday, and told me to in- 
vite six of the most beautiful and charming of 
my friends to honor the occasion. You are my 
first choice, and I will take no denial.” 

“I am not going out, you know, Daisy, and 
you’ll have to excuse me.” 

U I will not. A dinner party is not like an 
evening party, where they have dancing and 
frivolity galore , until daylight. It is a very 
decorous, 1 / think, a very dull, stiff way of 
entertaining, and it will be perfectly proper for 
you to come in a black dress. ’ ’ 

“It is not that,” said Ada, quietly; “but I 
really do not feel equal to meeting strangers yet. 
I’ll come and dine with you when there’ll be no 
one present except the family. Indeed, you 
must excuse me, Daisy.” 

“I will take no refusal, excuse, or regret, and 
shall be very much hurt if you persist,” replied 
Daisy, in her positive way. “Come, promise 
me. ’ ’ 

“You leave me no choice. Yes, I will come,” 
said Ada, who, after a quick mental conflict, de- 
cided that selfish considerations must yield to the 
pleasure of her friend, who was entirely unac- 
quainted with her true reasons for wishing to 
decline the invitation. If she was going to dis- 
cipline her heart, this would help as well as any 
other thing. “If you will wait a moment, I’ll 


ADA’S TRUST* 97 

get my wraps on, and walk as far as the cathe- 
dral with you.” 

u I’ll wait twenty for the pleasure,” was the 
girl’s quick reply, adding, after Ada had left the 
room : u 1 do wonder what upon earth she spends 
so much time in that gloomy cathedral for; it is 
enough to make her ‘melancholy mad.’ ” 

They parted at the cathedral door. Daisy 
Garnet’s parting speech was, that she “fully ex- 
pected some day to hear that a Saint Ada had 
been put up in a niche in the old walls.” 

“You don’ t know all it takes to make a saint, ’ ’ 
answered Ada, ‘ ‘ or how long it takes the Church 
to decide upon such a claim. Good-bye!” And 
they went their separate ways, each a mystery 
and a wonder to the other. 

When Ada got home, the servant who opened 
the door for her told her that Mrs. Ogden wanted 
to see her the moment she came in. Wondering 
what such a message could mean, and with a 
flutter of hope in her heart, she ran up-stairs, 
and found her aunt packing her trunk, with an 
expression of trouble on her usually calm coun- 
tenance, and traces of tears in her eyes. 

“What is it, Aunt Mary? Where are you go- 
ing?” she asked, astonishment depicted in her 
face. 

“I have just received a letter from Virginia. 
My brother is extremely ill, and urges me to 
come to him at once. I shall start to-night. Will 
you come with me, darling?” 

4 


9 8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


4 ( Gladly, aunty ; I would not let you go alone. 
Perhaps I can help my cousin Judith.” 

u Thank you, darling; go right up to your 
room and pack a small trunk with what you will 
absolutely need. We must be on board the Nor- 
folk steamer by 8 o’clock.” 

To pack her trunk, write a few lines to Daisy 
Garnet, another to “Cousin John,” the Arch- 
bishop, explaining her sudden absence, required 
an hour or two; then changing her dress for the 
one she usually wore when travelling, she laid 
her wraps out on the bed, and was ready to join 
Mrs. Ogden at dinner, which was served earlier 
than usual. Notes to be delivered, and last 
orders, were given to the servants; the trunks 
were put on the carriage, in readiness to convey 
to the steamer, which soon after cast loose from 
her moorings and pointed her bow southward. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


99 


CHAPTER VII. 

JUDITH DARREUU. 

Just as the sun appeared above the horizon, 
spangling the crested waves, the low, wooded 
shores, and the rose-tinted clouds with gold, the 
steamboat was slowly approaching Fortress 
Monroe, better known to Virginians and in the 
annals of Catholic Maryland as Old Point Com- 
fort — the name bestowed on the narrow barren 
strip of sand jutting out from the mainland into 
the Chesapeake Bay, by Leonard Calvert, a de- 
vout Catholic gentleman, when, after a stormy 
voyage, he and his fellow-pilgrims landed there 
to obtain fresh water and provisions, on the 20th 
of February, 1634. They planted the cross, and 
erecting a rude altar 011 the shell-strewn sands, 
Rev. Father White, S. J. , chaplain of the expe- 
dition, celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, 
consecrating the fair land to Almighty God — 
their dome the blue heavens, stretching like 
infinity above them — their music the soft rever- 
berating thunders of the ocean as it broke 
along the shore — their incense the prayers and 
thanksgiving which with adoring hearts they 




> 


IOO 


ADA’S TRUST. 


offered to Him who had delivered them from the 
perils of the deep. * 

As the steamboat, rolling and plunging, made 
her way through the great waves which are 
always rough here, where the waters of the bay 
and the two rivers, the James and the Elizabeth, 
meet, Mrs. Ogden and Ada, who were both 
u good sailors,” came out of their close state- 
rooms, and now stood enjoying the beauty of the 
scene, and the cool, delicious salt air, the very 
breath of which is life-giving. 

u Buc that is a very barren-looking spot!” 
said Ada, surveying Old Point Comfort; “ there’s 
only the grim Fortress, and yonder across the 
sands the hotel, I suppose; not a tree, or shrub, 
or green spot anywhere, except those grass- 
grown ramparts!” 

“It has memories dear to the Catholic heart, 
though. Those barren sands bore the footprints 
of the first Catholic apostles of Maryland,” said 
Mrs. Ogden, who then told her, in outline, of 
the landing of Leonard Calvert, and the subse- 
quent explorations of the Potomac, on whose 
beautiful western shores he founded his Catholic 
colony, where the Faith was planted, and where 
under the sanction of liberal laws religious tole- 
ration was declared — a boon denied in all the 


* Translated from an account of the voyage by Rev. 
Father White, S. J., which was written in Latin, and with 
other ancient records was, up to a few years ago, in posses- 
sion of the Jesuit Fathers at St. Inip-oes, Maryland. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


IOl 


other colonies of the New World to such as were 
outside the creed of those who founded and con- 
trolled them. Thia was the golden sentence by 
which the Assembly of the Catholic colony made 
FREEDOM OF CONSCIENCE a law within all its 
borders : 4 4 That 710 person professhig to believe in 
Jesus Christ should be molested in respect to his 
religion , or in the free exercise thereof ” But 
Mrs. Ogden could not tell Ada, who had been 
listening to the recital with deep interest, how, 
five years later, the peace of this new and pros- 
perous Eden was rudely broken by Cromwell, 
who determined to reduce the colony to his sub- 
jection; for by this time the steamboat was at 
the rude pier, where she was moored to facilitate 
the transfer of provisions and freight for the 
Fortress and the landing of passengers and their 
baggage. 

Mrs. Ogden had been here before, en route to 
her brother’s, and, directing a negro porter to 
follow with their triMiks, she and Ada went, or 
rather waded through the sand, towards the 
hotel, which although not yet open to visitors, 
was in charge of 4 4 care-takers, ’ ’ who were alwavs 
ready and glad to furnish a meal or a night’s ac- 
commodation for any chance stranger brought 
thither by business or pleasure. A negro woman, 
tidily arrayed in blue homespun, with a gay-col- 
ored Madras handkerchief wound like a fanciful 
turban around her head, received them at the 
open door with a smile and a grotesque dip of a 
curtsy. 


102 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“Walk in, Missis,” was her greeting; “I felt 
like somebody was a-comin’, an’ I done kindled 
up a nice little fire. Walk this-a-way, Missis — 
for the a’r is keen, if the sun do shine so warm 
outside.” 

Nothing loth, they followed their hostess into 
one of the small private parlors, where, sure 
enough, a bright resinous fire of pine cones and 
light-wood knots blazed in the grate, diffusing 
not only warmth, but a delicious fragrance like 
frankincense in the air. The sunlight poured 
through the window, glorifying the pretty room, 
and a table was already spread for breakfast, 
adding no little to our travellers’ sense of com- 
fort, for the salt air had whetted their appetite 
to downright hungriness. There was a small 
dressing-room en suite , and by the time Mrs. 
Ogden and Ada had bathed their faces, arranged 
their hair, and brushed their gowns, their dusky 
hostess, with many a bob of a curtsy and a 
pleasant smile, came, to tell them that breakfast 
was on the table — a most inviting one, they dis- 
covered, as soon as, obeying her summons, they 
took the chairs she placed for them. 

“ Dem flounders, Missis, was cotch jes as de 
steamboat was off 4 Buckroe plantation’ over 
yonder, an’ dese oysters was brung in at de same 
time. I’se mighty glad my man happen’d to be 
jes’ in time.” 

“It is a delicious breakfast, aunty; your 
bread is beautiful — ” 


ADA’S TRUST. IO3 

“Milkrisin’, Missis,” she interrupted , “I don’t 
hold wi’ hop yeast; it sort o’ takes de life outen 
de flour. Try some br’iled chicken, Missy, an’ 
I’ll run to de kitchen for some egg-bread dat’s 
jest ’bout done now,” she said, flying out. 

“Aunt Mary,” said Ada, gravely, “I don’t 
think I ever felt so hungry in all my life. Is it 
the salt air ? and will it be safe for me to eat all 
that ] want?” 

u Perfectly so. We’ve got a long day’s ride 
before us, and no stopping-place on the way for 
the refreshment of man or beast; therefore eat 
while you may.” 

“I believe I am enjoying everything, it is all 
so strange and pleasant. Even that pretty brown 
woman, who is so good to us, is as picturesque 
and quaint to me as any peasant I saw abroad, 
in the Tyrol, the Grisons, or anywhere — ” 

“Yere it is, Missis!” said their hostess, sud- 
denly appearing with a plate on which was a 
pound-cake, or something that looked exactly 
like one, which she set on the table, and pro- 
ceeded to cut into triangular slices, inviting her 
guests to partake. 

“It looks very nice; what is it?” inquired 
Ada. 

u It’s only egg-bread, Missy, made outen beat 
eggs, an’ corn-meal, an’ milk, wid jest a little 
bit o’ butter, an’ de leastest dust of flour,” she 
answered, proudly. “I couldn’t had nothin’ 
ready do’ if my nose hadn’t kept itchin’ from de 


io4 


ADA’S TRUST. 


time I opened my eyes dis mornin’ — a sure sign, 
marm, dat cotnp’ny’s cornin’; an’ I says: ‘Jeff, 
you lazy nigger, g’long out an’ cotch some fish 
an’ oysters ’fo’ de boat gets in; my nose is settin’ 
me dat crazy dat I’ in ded sho’ somebody’s coinin’ 
to breakfus.’ He tol’ me I was dat foolish he 
didn’t see how I kep my head outen de fire, but 
I made him git up an’ go. He’s a awful sleepy- 
head, Jeff is,” she said, giggling. 

u You’re a first-rate cook, and we thank you 
very much for producing such a delicious break- 
fast for us,” said Mrs. Ogden, amused. She 
understood the negro character too well to mis- 
take for undue familiarity the woman’s manner 
and talk, which were only the outcome of a kind, 
untutored heart. “But will you tell us your 
name; we’d like to remember you by it.” 

“I’s named Venus* Missis, an’ my twin-sis- 
ter’s named 'Nervy ,” she answered, dropping a 
curtsy. 

Her answer took Ada so much by surprise, 
and the instantaneous contrast arose in her mind 
so vividly between the marble Venuses she had 
seen abroad, and this dusky, fat, short one, so 
grotesque and quick in her movements, that it 
was with the greatest difficulty she avoided 

* Venus was the name of my mother’s old cook, and her 
twin-sister’s name was Minerva, and I doubt if two more ill- 
favored darkeys were ever born, or two more unapproach- 
ably skilful cooks. Olympus was renewed in the names 
given to the negroes of the South, who dearly loved all high- 
sounding cognomens. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


io 5 

laughing out, and almost strangled herself in the 
effort to swallow some hot coffee out of a large 
gilt-emblazoned u Remember Me” cup in which 
she tried to hide her face. 

“I suppose you and your husband are free, 
Venus?” said Mrs. Ogden, kindly, more to cover 
Ada’s involuntary amusement, than from any 
special interest in the question. 

“Lor’ no, Missis, not as you understand it; 
but we’s as free as ever we wants to be. We 
b’ longs to Mars’ Cargill, over yonder to 4 Buck- 
roe plantation,’ an’ hires our time from him, an’ 
all we makes over is our’n. It’s a mighty good 
’rangement, too, Missis, ’cos if we gets sick, or 
has trouble, we goes back to Mars’ r to be tooken 
keer on. Dat’s de way it works, inarm.” 

“The arrangement is in your favor, Venus, I 
think. And now, having finished our breakfast, 
can you tell me where I can hire a horse and 
carriage, with some one to drive, for a day?” 
“Might git one at Hampton, but thar’s nothin’ 
to be had yere ’xceptin’ a kyart. * De sogers in 
de Fort yonder ain’t got nothin’ dat runs on 
wheels, ’cept cannons. How fur is you gwine, 
Missis?” 

“To the Cape — to Mr. Darrall’s.” 

“Den, marm, a kerridge wouldn’t be so good 
as a kyart, cos you got to go a long part of de 
way through the piney woods whar dar’s nuffin 


*So the negroes pronounced cart. 


106 


ADA’S TRUST. 


but san’ an’ wild-hog tracks. It’s a fac’. If 
you’ll take de kyart, I’ll put clean straw in it, 
an’ my two rush-bottom cheers for you to set on, 
an’ you’ll be real comfor’ble. An’ its sich a 
bright, warm day, dat de pines smells mighty 
sweet, dey do.” 

“Do, aunty, take the cart; it will be delight- 
ful, I know; we can get out and walk when we 
feel tired and cramped,” said Ada. 

“It’s Hobson’s choice, darling; I’m afraid we 
shall have to do it. But who will drive us?” 

“Jeff will, inarm. He’s my man, an’ he’s 
down yonder workin’ up de garden. I’ll blow 
him up,” she said, running out, before they 
could ask her what she meant. 

“‘Blow him up!’ what do you suppose she 
means to do to him, aunty?” asked Ada, with 
a bewildered air. But before Mrs. Ogden could 
speak, a loud, long blast on a tin horn explained 
the ambiguous words, and they both saw from 
their window the man suddenly drop his hoe, 
and start on a run towards the house, where his 
voluble wife soon made him understand the 
situation. He was a lithe, active, brown man 
of about thirty-five. His coarse homespun shirt, 
as white as snow, and his dark, threadbare, but- 
ternut-colored trowsers, were patched without 
regard to the harmony of colors, but all clean 
and whole. He was of higher intelligence than 
his wife, and Mrs. Ogden found no difficulty in 
arranging matters with him. He offered to go 


ADA’S TRUST. 


107 


to Hampton to try and hire a carriage for her; 
but Mrs. Ogden did not wish to be delayed, and, 
in fact, secretly inclined to the first plan. He 
knew every inch of the way to “Darrall House,” 
he said; for his father belonged to Mr. Darrall, 
and he’d been there many a time to see him. 
4 ‘Thar ’ 11 be room in the kyart for the two 
trunks, one under the seat and one behind; but 
it'll take ’1110s’ all day to git thar, inarm, ’count 
of thar bein’ no road, an’ the sail’ bein’ so 
heavy. It’ll be slow, easy goin’, Missis, but 
mighty safe, if you keer to try it.” 

“We’ll try it, I think. Get everything ready 
as quickly as you can, as I wish to start at once,” 
said Mrs. Ogden. A generous price was paid 
for their breakfast, which made the eyes of Venus 
twinkle, so far did it exceed her modest expecta- 
tions, while her husband was no less satisfied 
with what he was to receive for his services. 

In a little while everything was arranged, and 
our travellers were once more moving, but not 
before Venus handed a wicker basket to Ada, 
saying “Snack,” dropped a curtsy, and ran into 
the house for fear the young “Missy ” would not 
accept the nice things packed in it, or offer to 
pay for them. It would have delighted her heart 
had she seen how, late in the afternoon, the cold 
chicken, bread and butter, and other nice dainties, 
were enjoyed by both ladies, with blessings on 
her thoughtful kindness. 

The slow iourney through the pines was sc 


io8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


novel and delightful, and so unlike any other 
experience of travel Ada had known, that, for 
the time being, the recollections of past, as well 
as of later trials, were lulled into forgetfulness 
by the dreamy, soothing effect of the surround- 
ings. The near view she had had of a quaint 
and happy phase of negro character, this primi- 
tive method of transportation in au open cart, 
half-buried in clean, fragrant straw, with the 
tempered warmth of the salt air, exhilarated and 
stirred the pulses of her heart to broader and 
higher thoughts of nature. Presently they en- 
tered the wide, far-stretching belt of pines, whose 
tall trunks, shooting straight skyward, inter- 
laced their green, fragrant plumes overhead, 
reminding one of an immense cathedral with 
pillared aisles and arches, while the aroma dif- 
fused by the transparent gum exuding from 
them was like frankincense, and the low sighing 
of the wind through their branches sometimes 
sounded like a Miserere , and again like a solemn 
antiphon to the soft thunders of the waves beat- 
ing and melting upon the level shores. Mrs. 
Ogden was reading, and Ada, listening now to 
the not unmusical sounds made by the wheels of 
the cart in the sharp, deep sands, then to the 
voices of wind and wave, felt that the solitude 
was not only eloquent, but filled with delicious 
balms. In this deep rest of nature how insig- 
nificant did the unrest of life appear! Then 
came the thought: “I wonder here why the 


ADA’S TRUST. IO9 

faithlessness of one should have had such power 
to wound? I cannot spend my life in a pine 
forest by the sea, waiting to be healed; but I 
can, and I mean, with God’s help, to submit 
myself to His holy will, to do what I can for the 
friendless and sorrowful, and so find peace. The 
influences pervading my life to-day are as transi- 
tory as they are delicious to the senses; I want 
to be permanently cured, which I cannot hope 
for, unless I overcome self, which means a life- 
long struggle that would make me shrink back 
like a coward, if I could not lay hold on the 
divine help my Faith gives to her children.” 

Ada’s meditations, so natural under the cir- 
cumstances, were interrupted by an exclamation 
from their driver: “We’s ’most dar, Missis; 

when we gets parst dat break in de pines ’taint 
fur. ’ ’ 

“I wondered where that tremendous booming 
sound came from. We must be near the ocean V 1 
said Ada. 

u Right upon it, Missy; it runs all ’round de 
cape as ef it was tryin’ to swaller it.” 

“It is frightful when there’s a great storm 
such as I have seen there, when my courage 
would have utterly failed, had I not had faith in 
the Power which assigned their limits to the 
seas,” said Mrs. Ogden. 

It was nearly sunset when they came in sight 
of “Darrall House” — a long, low, irregular 
structure, built of gray-stone. A blind man 


110 


ADA’S TRUST. 


might have outlined its plans, so many abrupt 
angles and courts and quaint projections did it 
display. Great sand dunes near the beach, which 
the wind and the waves had been piling np, and 
tearing away, and piling np again for ages, but 
could never obliterate, protected the dwelling 
and farmlands from the fierce blasts. They 
looked like gigantic ramparts, and were covered 
landward with a stunted growth of wax myrtle, 
straggling patches of salt-water grass, and here 
and there a small pine-tree, distorted and twisted 
awry by its struggle for existence, reminding one 
of those trees in the Inferno , which uttered de- 
spairing words and dropped tears of blood when 
a twig was broken — distorted shapes sprung 
from souls of suicides hurled down to take root 
in hell. The barking of the watch-dogs min- 
gled with the prolonged baying of a pack of 
hounds, kept by Mr. Darrall because other gen- 
tlemen kept theirs, with this difference, that 
they, as may be supposed, being great hunters, 
went on many a wild foray with their hounds, 
while Mr. Darrall, living among his books, 
never gave a thought to his, except to order an 
unlimited supply of corn-bread to be baked for 
them daily, or send one of his men to thrasf 
•them off when they escaped their quarters and 
bayed under his windows. The dogs having 
announced our travellers to the Darrall house- 
noid, servants ran out, and a tall, spare woman 
made her appearance at the hall-door. One of 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Ill 


the older servants had already recognized Mrs. 
Ogden, and sainted her in his honest, homely 
fashion. 

u How is yonr Master, Gilbert?” 

“He’s very low, Miss Mary, they says. It’s a 
good thing yon come, bless God!” he answered, 
helping her down; then directing the man who 
had brought them ‘ 4 to take his hoss and 1 kyart’ 
’round to the barn, an’ wait thar ’till he come,” 
he shouldered both small trunks and followed 
Mrs. Ogden and Ada up the shell-walk to the 
house, where Mrs. Willis, the housekeeper, re- 
ceived them stiffly. Their coming was evidently 
unexpected, and also unwelcome to her. 

“If you had let us know you were coming, 
some one would have met you at Old Point with 
the carriage,” she remarked, in brusque tones, 
as they followed her into the house. She threw 

9 

open the parlor door, and invited them to enter 
and sit down until she told Mr. Darrall of their 
arrival. The shutters were closed; there was no 
fire, and a mouldy, damp odor pervaded the 
room. 

“ Where is Miss Darrall?” asked Mrs. Ogden, 
drawing back. 

u Who, Judith? She’s with her father. You 
know he’s very ill, and the doctor says his life 
depends on his being kept quiet. I’m afraid 
your visit won’t do him no good.” 

“Mrs. Willis,” said Mrs. Ogden, with that air 
of dignity she could so well assume, seeing that 


112 


ADA’S TRUST. 


it was this woman’s purpose to interpose as many 
difficulties as she could in the way of perfect 
freedom in her intercourse with her brother, and 
believing that in this instance open warfare was 
the best peace — u Mrs. Willis, I am here by re- 
quest of my brother, whose letter urged me to 
come, and I have lost no time in obeying his 
wishes. Be good enough to send my niece to 
me. ’ ’ 

“The excitement will kill him, that’s all,” 
she said, turning away abruptly, muttering to 
herself as she went down the hall, “I’ll find 
out what nigger took that letter to the post-office, 
and if I don’t make him remember it I wish I 
may die.” She turned into a cross passage lead- 
ing to Mr. Darrall’s rooms, which were on the 
ground floor, and, pushing open a green baize 
door that gave no sound, she walked across a 
thickly-carpeted ante-room as noiseless as the 
action of the door, opened another green baize 
door cautiously and looked in. Judith was sit- 
ting motionless by her father’s side, her eyes 
fixed sadly and lovingly on his thin, white face. 
When Mrs. Willis appeared she looked up quickly 
and placed her finger on her lips. He was asleep 

“You are wanted. Come, I’ll sit here,” she 
whispered, as Judith, seeing her beckon, left the 
bedside, and went with noiseless footsteps across 
the floor. 

Judith Darrall w r ould not have left her post, 
only that she knew so perfectly the determined 


ADA’S TRUST. 


IT 3 


will of this woman, who would not have hesi- 
tated, at the risk of awakening the patient out 
of this, the first natural sleep he had known for 
weeks, to insist on her doing her bidding now, 
as she had been doing it all these years since her 
stepmother’s death. Her garments made no 
rustle, her feet no sound, as she left the sick room 
without question of who wanted her, or where to 
go. She turned into the main hall, thinking 
perhaps her messenger was there, and her eyes 
fell on Mrs. Ogden and Ada. In another mo- 
ment she was in her aunt’s arms, sobbing on her 
shoulder. 

u Oh aunty, angels were not more welcome in 
the tents of my fathers than you are this day, 
and you — ” she said, stretching out her hand to 
Ada. 

“That is your cousin, Ada Moore, of whom I 
have written you, my child,” said Mrs. Ogden, 
kissing the tears from the girl’s heavy lids. 

Judith Darrall lifted her head, turned with 
stately grace towards Ada, scanned her face for 
a moment, and then embraced her. 

“It is so good to have you both here now , ’ ’ 
she exclaimed, with another burst of tears less 
passionate than the first. 4 4 But she must not 
know how glad I am. Oh aunty, forgive me for 
crying in such a childish way, I have not been 
able to shed a tear until now; but the joy and re- 
lief of seeing you have opened the sealed fount- 
ain that I thought was scorched dry. Tears 

4* 


4 


ii4 


ADA’S TRUST. 


such as these are like the dews of Hermori oil the 
thirsty earth.” 

It was plain to see that Judith Darrall had 
lived on memories and traditions; her very phras- 
eology gave evidence of it, and the isolation of 
her existence had intensified the morbid condi- 
tions of her mind. Loving the memory of liei 
mother in all that her father had related to hei 
of her wonderful beauty, her sweet, pure nature, 
her faith, her early death, it is not strange that, 
hoping to be more like her, she found her great- 
est delight in studying such books as described 
the glories and achievements of the Hebrews, 
their poetry, their sorrows, and all that the Rab- 
binnical legends relate concerning them. There 
were volumes enough in Mr. Darrall’s library 
treating of such subjects, some of which he had 
bought to read as a matter of history, many 
others he had collected after he returned home 
with his Eastern bride, to gratify her. And so 
Judith’s life was tinctured with the ancient faith 
of the people of God; her pride of descent from 
them was unbounded, nor would she have ex- 
changed it for a heritage in the proudest dynasty 
of modern times. But there were other things 
relating to her own history, which reached her 
from time to time in ambiguous hints from the 
lips of Mrs. Willis, that gave a morbid tinge to 
her mind. She could not fathom the mystery, 
and it awakened in her imagination a morbid 
dread of — herself. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


”5 

“Come, dear Aunt Miriam, and you Ada, it 
is chilly here; let us go into the dining-room, 
where there’s a fire, while I send a servant to 
prepare your room ; you shall soon have a cup of 
hot tea and refreshments,” said Judith, while we 
were indulging in the above digression, as she 
led the way to the dining-room, where there was 
indeed a bright fire, also a young man with 
stolid, unrefined features, and sandy hair, loung- 
ing beside it, with a pipe in his mouth from 
which issued stifling fumes of tobacco, while 
two great shaggy dogs lay at his feet. He rose 
up with a look of utter astonishment. 

“Mr. Willis, this lady is my aunt — Mrs. Og- 
den; this one, my cousin, Miss Ada Moore. To- 
bacco-smoke may not be agreeable to them,” 
added Judith, scarcely veiling her disgust. 

“I’ve finished my pipe,” he said, bowing 
awkwardly, as he knocked the ashes out on the 
edge of the fender. 

“Now let me take off your bonnets and 
things,” said the girl, without deigning him 
further notice. He stood upon the rug a few 
moments in loutish silence, then left the room, 
followed closely by his dogs. Judith busied 
herself, with the aid of a maid-servant as black 
as ebony, in spreading for her guests an inviting 
supper consisting of cold fowl, beat-biscuit, cake, 
preserves, hot tea, cream, butter and pickled 
oysters. Ada, whose appetite was again whetted 
by the salt air, thought the pickled oysters the 


1 16 


ADA’S TRUST. 


most delicious thing she had ever tasted, being 
the first she had ever seen. 

They formed a cosy little circle, and felt re- 
freshed after their fatiguing journey, and the 
unpleasant reception given them by Mrs. Willis. 

“Now, my child, tell me exactly how youi 
father is?” said Mrs. Ogden. 

U I can only tell you, Aunt Miriam,” said the 
girl, with sweet, grave countenance, 1 1 that he is 
asleep now, the first time for two weeks — I mean 
a natural sleep. They used to give him opium, 
but he refused it when he found out what medi- 
cine he was taking; then he couldn’t sleep at all 
until to-day. Don’t you think it is a good sign? 
I know it will make him better when he knows 
you are here.” 

Ada watched her as she talked with Mrs. Og- 
den about her father, and thought she had never 
seen a more perfect form of unstudied grace and 
beauty than Judith Darrall. Tall and slender, 
yet beautifully rounded as appeared by the con- 
tour of her form, with a small, perfectly shaped 
head which sat upon her throat as upon a column 
of ivory, and was crowned by a magnificent suit 
of black silken hair, pushed back carelessly from 
her forehead and coiled in a heavy mass at the 
back, revealing its purely classic outline, with 
oval face, delicately aquiline nose, thin sensitive 
nostrils, and lips exquisitely cut, and as crimson 
• as the heart of a rose, yet looking as if they had 
never smiled; and a complexion like ivory, only 


ADA’S TRUST. 


II 7 


soft and transparent enough to show little thread- 
like veins in the temples. Judith Darrall would 
have been simply perfect, possessed of rare love- 
liness, but for her eyes; full-orbed, heavy-lidded, 
black, luminous and soft, with even, black brows 
gently arching above them, and thick dusky 
lashes shading them, there was yet something of 
a furtive, watching expression, a gloom that 
sometimes dropped like a veil over them, hiding 
their glory, and a quick, frightened look, that 
often impaired their softness. And these moods 
came and went without reason, as far as one 
could see, as Ada observed then and afterwards. 
No queen in the royalest of her jewelled robes 
could have looked more regal than did Judith in 
her closely-fitting brown woolen dress, which 
seemed to adapt itself in symmetrical curves and 
lines to her form. There was a ruffle of some 
sort around her throat, but nothing on the 
rounded wrists except the loose brown sleeves 
and bands of gold with Hebrew characters in- 
scribed upon them. What gave her all this 
beauty, this unstudied grace, this queenly pres- 
ence ? Was it the proud Asmonean blood that 
had come down to her by direct descent through 
the race of warrior kings from Judas Machabeus, 
the kingliest of them all ? Did she get that 
troubled, fretful look in her eyes from the alien 
Gentile race her mother had consorted with in 
her marriage with Lindsey Darrall? Was she a 
Christian? Ada could not tell; she only knew 


ii8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


that her cousin was the most beautiful, puzzling 
study she had ever seen, and she wondered how 
meeting her would affect their two lives. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


JI9 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AT BAY — RUBBISH. 

The excitement of the arrival of his sister and 
niece did not 4 4 kill Mr. Darrall,” as the house- 
keeper h?d predicted it would; on the contrary, 
it revived and stirred his torpid vitality, arousing 
him to a fresh interest in life. He was like the 
shadow of his former self, however; only his 
handsome eyes, bright with the slow fever that 
still lurked in his system, were unchanged; while 
his snow-white hair, which fell softly waving 
round his wasted face, relieved its sharp outlines. 

“She is the image of her mother,” he said, 
gazing wistfully at Ada, whom he had never 
seen before; then he drew her down to him and 
kissed her tenderly. “ I hope you and my poor 
Judith will be good friends. She has had a 
dreary life, with but few to love.” 

No need to tell her that; it was what Ada al- 
ready knew through those fine instincts, which 
although they often appear so unreasoning, are 
in the main true; and so strongly had they im- 
pressed her now, that it required no urging for her 
to try and win her cousin’s love, and, as far as it 
lay in her power, do all she could to brighten her 
life. Mrs. Ogden was sitting close to her 


120 


ada’s trust. 


brother’s bedside, her hand clasped in his; it 
rested and calmed him so to hold her, and pre- 
vent her making any movement to leave him. 
Mrs. Willis began to show signs of uneasiness at 
the prolonged interview, which only Judith un- 
derstood, and would have obeyed, had she been 
there alone; but now she was in doubt how her 
father would take it if she led her cousin away 
too soon. After a few minutes Mrs. Willis made 
an opportunity, as she crossed the room to pre- 
pare a tumbler of toast- water for Mr. Darrall, to 
whisper: u His fever is rising. He must be 

quiet. Go away at once.” 

The two girls left the room at the moment 
when Mrs. Willis was raising the patient on his 
pillow to give him a drink, her person interpos- 
ing between him and the door. 

“Even that tastes better to-day — but where 
are the girls, Mrs. Willis?” he said, as, leaning 
back on his pillows and looking around, he 
missed their presence. 

“They thought they’d been here long enough, 
which is true according to the doctor’s direc- 
tions, and they’ve went to take a walk,” said 
Mrs. Willis, with a sharp look at Mrs. Ogden, as 
she went into the ante-room to take out some 
empty vials and wash the tumbler just used — fot ' 
very neat was the housekeeper in all her ways. 

“That’s as it should be; sunshine and air for 
the young, shadow and rest for the old. Don’1 
leave me, Mary,” said Mr. Darrall, in low tones. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


121 


“No: I will not leave you; have no fear of 
that.” 

“And don’t mind her ; her words are sharp 
sometimes.” 

“I will not mind,” replied Mrs. Ogden, as the 
housekeeper came back, and sat down in her 
accustomed chair near the foot of the bed. Tak- 
ing up her knitting, she soon appeared to be ab- 
sorbed in the mystery of widening, narrowing, 
and turning stitches, but there was not a move- 
ment of Mr. Darrall’s or Mrs. Ogden’s that es- 
caped her eye. 

As the days passed on, Mrs. Ogden discovered 
that, under one pretext or another, Mrs. Willis 
never allowed her an opportunity to exchange 
a confidential word with her brother, or him with 
her; she was either in the room, or coming in 
and out so persistently as to render it impossible. 
There was no excuse to dispense with such close 
attention; she had nursed Mr. Darrall through 
two long critical illnesses before this, and his 
condition yet required watchful and regular care, 
which she rendered without fuss, hurry, or mis- 
take; her voice was one of those that did not 
rasp the nerves of the sick whenever she spoke, 
and whatever she did was done with steady, deft 
hands. But now that Mr. Darrall was showing 
signs of improvement each day, and his sister 
was with him, there was no necessity for this in- 
cessant watchfulness and hovering around of the 
housekeeper — so, at least, Mrs. Ogden thought. 


122 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“I think I might relieve you an hour or two 
each day; my brother seems to be growing so 
much better,” said Mrs. Ogden one morning. 

“Twouldu’t do to make any change; ’twould 
throw him right back. He’s so used to my 
nursing,” she answered, curtly; “I reckon I’d 
better keep on; leastwise ’till all’s over.” 

Yes, he was used to her nursing, and she had 
so managed as to make Mrs. Ogden feel that her 
presence there, in her own brother’s house, was 
unwelcome. Mrs. Ogden, in fact, could arrive 
at but one conclusion, which was that the woman 
had some strong, secret motive for her behavior; 
but what it was she could not comprehend — yet. 
Her heart grew faint. “Until all’s over,” meant 
death, and she had so much to say to him! It 
might be that having nursed him so long, the 
housekeeper knew his danger better than she 
did, and that the apparent improvement in his 
condition was only the precursor of a deeper and 
more fatal sinking. 

“Has a Catholic priest been sent for to see my 
brother? — you know he’s a Catholic.” 

“No; he’s never asked for one. Our circuit 
preacher come once, and prayed with him; but it 
put him in such a state I thought he’d die. He’s 
a man it’s best not to meddle with, is Mr. Dar- 
rall. It’s time to give him his broth,” she said, 
looking at the clock and rising from the break- 
fast table. 

“I must speak to him alone,” thought Mrs. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


123 


Ogden; “I see that Mrs. Willis means to prevent 
it, however, if she can; but it will bo strange, 
unless her stronger will has got absolute control 
of his, if I don’t.” She had been much with 
the sick man all day, watching his every mood, 
and observed that there came at times a look of 
unrest — a questioning anxiety — over his counte- 
nance, while his eyes followed Mrs. Willis’s 
every movement in and out and about his room; 
also that he gave her brief answers whenever she 
addressed him. And she, too, was on the qui 
vive to prevent that which she most dreaded, a 
private conversation between Mr. Darrall and 
Mrs. Ogden. She now had her meals brought 
to her in the ante-room, where she could hear 
the slightest sound, or the lowest whisper of her 
patient. 

One evening Ada and Judith came in from a 
walk on the beach, followed by Floyd Willis, 
who rudely took his place at the tea-table, and 
ordered the servant to pour out his coffee before 
they were seated, remarking, with a grin: “It’s 
a good thing, Jude, that the old woman’s not 
about, or you’d have caught it for not being in 
time, I bet.” 

Her only reply was to turn her lustrous eyes 
with an expression of such mingled hate and 
scorn upon him, that Ada wondered the glance 
did not wither him like lightning; but he only 
noticed it by a coarse laugh, and continued to 
help himself from the savory dishes before him. 


124 


ADA’S TRUST. 


After gorging himself for a few minutes, he laid 
down his knife and fork, and addressing himself 
to Ada, said: u You know she and me are going 
to be married soon’s ever the old man dies, so I 
don’t mind a lovers’ quarrel now — but she’ll be 
tame enough by and by, won’t you, sweet- 
heart?” A superb flash of her eye and silence 
was her only response. u She ain’t much of a 
scold, you see, that’s some comfort,” added the 
coarse lout, as he resumed his meal. 

Mrs. Ogden was not present when this scene 
occurred; she had gone up to her room with a 
heavy heart, to offer prayers for her brother, and 
ask guidance for herself in this difficult strait, 
through her who is ever the Help of Christians. 
As she rose from her knees, her rosary, wet with 
tears, still in her hand, Ada came in. 

u Oh, aunty!” she said, in a subdued voice, as 
if under strong emotion, U I am so glad you are 
here!” And Mrs. Ogden .saw by the firelight 
that she was very pale. 

u What is the matter, my child? — is your uncle 
worse?” 

u Oh, no, aunty! it is my cousin Judith. Oh, 
such trouble! It must not, cannot be!” ex- 
claimed Ada, almost incoherently. 

u What has happened, Ada; compose your- 
self, and tell me,” said Mrs. Ogden, in a calm, 
concentrated tone. It was her way in all emer- 
gencies, as it is with people of any depth of feel- 
ing, to be composed and quiet in exact ratio 


ADA’S TRUST. 


j 25 


with the excitement and emotion of those aiound 
her — to possess her soul, if not in patience, in a 
way which left her the clear use of her faculties. 

“I will, Aunt Mary, but I must shut and lock 
the door first; some one might be listening out- 
side in that dark, crooked passage,” said Ada, 
suiting the action to the word. “Now, aunty, 
let me sit here and lean on your knees, and I 
will tell you something. To-day when we — 
Judith and I — were getting ready to go down to 
the beach to see the cacti in bloom, Mrs. Willis 
came into the room to prepare some sort of nour- 
ishment for my uncle, who, she said, was sleep- 
ing. She asked where we were going, and heard 
that we were going to the beach to look at the 
cactus flowers. Then she told my cousin to go 
up to her room for the big blanket-shawl to 
spread on the sands to sit on when we got tired, 
or wrap about ourselves if the wind was too 
keen. Judith made no answer, but went away 
to get the shawl. Then Mrs. Willis came up 
close to me and whispered, ‘If she proposes to- 
day, or at any time, to go to the fresh- water lake 
back yonder, make some excuse not to go; Floyd 
will take you some day, if you’d like to see it, 
but it’s a gloomy place, I can tell you! Her 
father don’t like her even to go a-near it, but 
she do steal off there sometimes, and don’t get 
over it for weeks. ’ 

“‘Why shouldn't she go there if she likes 
to?’ I asked her; for oh, aunty, somehow that 


126 


ADA’S TRUST. 


woman makes me feel just as I do when I see 
a caterpillar — a kind of creeping feeling steals 
all over me whenever she comes near me. 
There’s no reason in it, but that’s the way it is, 
and so I am always on the defensive, even when 
I think of her. I hope it is not wrong, but I 
can’t help it. Then she told me — oh, with such 
a look in her eyes! — that my cousin’s mother had 
drowned herself there! She tapped her forehead, 
and said: ‘The poor thing was kind of astray 
here, and it’s more than likely that Judith will 
go the same way; it’s in her blood.’ Then she 
heard my cousin coming down the hall, and hur- 
ried out to the kitchen before she reached the 
dining-room. ‘I had to hunt them up; see, I 
have brought two, and it kept me a little longer,’ 
Judith said, standing in the doorway, with the 
bright-colored shawls on her arm, looking like 
an eastern queen. ‘Are you quite ready?’ I 
told her yes, and we started towards the beach, 
which was reached by a gap through the high 
sand-dunes. We walked some distance before 
the chill Mrs. Willis had struck into my heart 
began to wear off. The beach was all glowing 
with cactus-flowers of every color, blooming so 
low in the sands that from a little distance I 
could have easily imagined that a rich carpet 
had been spread upon it. But as we could not 
touch them, so well are they protected by theii 
prickly leaves, we wandered on, watching the 
magnificent rollers breaking into long lines ot 


ADA’S TRUST. 


127 


foam, listening to their din and roar, laughing 
at the tipsy-looking gulls dipping their white 
wings into the surf, screaming, as if with rage, 
when the fish they were after eluded them; then 
we spread our shawls at the foot of a great sand- 
dune, to rest ourselves and still enjoy all the 
glory of the spectacle before us, to which a ship 
in full sail, outward bound, rocking on the huge 
waves, gave deeper interest. Then my cousin 
began to tell me of a ship that was wrecked a 
mile lower down, one night two years ago, in a 
frightful storm. It was dreadful! so many were 
drowned, women and little children as well as 
men, and the big ship was broken in two. In 
the midst of our talk, when we were thinking of 
nothing beyond the sad story of the wreck, we 
were .startled by a loud ‘Halloo!’ and turning 
round, there was that disagreeable Willis com- 
ing towards us. We were sitting so near each 
other that I felt Judith shudder, and saw her dig 
her white teeth into her lip until the blood 
started, but all she said as she wiped her mouth 
was, ‘ Let us go on. ’ ‘ Let us wait and tell him 

we don’t wish his company,’ I said, as we rose 
up — ‘/’// tell him so. I don’t like him.’ ‘I hate 
him,’ she said, with intense bitterness; ‘but say 
nothing to him.’ ‘Why, then, allow him to 
intrude upon you?’ ‘I cannot help myself,’ she 
replied, in a hopeless kind of way. ' By this time 
he had overtaken us, and we started to go back 
to the house. He did most of the talking, and 


128 


ADA’S TRUST. 


such coarse, ignorant talk I never heard before, 
aunty; I do not know what to think. The mys- 
terious hints of Mrs. Willis troubled me more 
than I can express, while the pushing familiarity 
of her son astonished me at first, and at last 
added to my distress, when Judith told me, in 
such a hopeless way, that she ‘could not help 
herself.’ I could not ask her why; but it was 
explained just now at the supper-table by his 
telling me in his rude, rough way, that he was 
going to marry her. That is all; but, oh, aunty, 
is it not dreadful! She with insanity in her 
blood, and hating him intensely! Something 
dreadful will come of it, if it is not remedied at 
once.” 

“Do not distress yourself, my child,” said 
Mrs. Ogden, deeply moved; “there’s time 
enough, with God’s good help, to prevent things 
reaching their worst. I do not believe the story 
of her poor mother’s insanity, or suicide; but if 
she has been taught to believe it, and made to 
dread the evil as a heritage of her own, and has 
been made subject to a course of espionage by 
Mrs. Willis, until she is constantly on the alert 
to avoid doing or saying the least thing that 
could be misconstrued, and always in dread lest 
she may have inadvertently exhibited some trait, 
in word or look, that the woman would set 
down to the dreaded malady, then it is difficult 
to foresee the consequences to her. Mrs. Willis 
has prevented my being alone with my brother 


ADA’S TRUST. 


129 

since I have been here; but never fear, God is 
over all, and my trust is in Him. We must find 
some way to frustrate that woman’s designs, the 
key to which you have just given me by what 
you have related. If I am right, her object is 
to secure my brother’s wealth for herself and her 
son. She cannot effect this more certainly than 
by bringing about a marriage between him and 
my brother’s only child. O Blessed Lady of 
Succor, help us in this difficult strait!” 

After a short time, Mrs. Ogden went down to 
sit with her brother. He told her to bring her 
chair to his bedside, which she did, and taking 
his hand in hers, smoothed it gently until he fell 
asleep, while the housekeeper sat at a little dis- 
tance, watching them both. When sure that he 
slept soundly, Mrs. Ogden left the room with 
noiseless steps. 1 1 To-morrow I will speak at all 
risks,” she thought. 

Judith had gone up to her cousin’s room, to- 
wards whom her frozen heart was warming more 
and more each day. It was very comforting to 
her to have some one near her own age to love, 
and whom she could trust and have compan- 
ionship with. The two girls talked togethei 
until midnight, in low undertones, Ada telling 
her of the beautiful old classic lands she had vis- 
ited; Judith, with a hunger and thirst of the 
heart, listening with keen intelligence, appre- 
ciating all she heard, and only speaking to ask a 
question now and then, for she had read many 
5 


130 


ADA'S TRUST. 


hooks of foreign travel and laid tliem aside, 
thinking of the scenes they described as myths — 
but here was one speaking to her who had seen 
and lived among them, which, for the first time, 
made them seem realities. Her attention became 
more riveted when Ada, full of religious fervor, 
desciibed her wanderings in Syria. Then the 
dark Judean eyes lit up her face with strange 
beauty; her Ups, apart, showed the even edge of 
her white teeth ; her cheeks glowed, and clasping 
her hands she said in low, impassioned tones: 
“The birthplace of my mother, the land of my 
fathers! Oh! that I might go there and die!” 
u We will go there some day, dear cousin, but 
not to die,” said Ada, kissing her cheek. In- 
stantly the light and glory left her face. 

“But if — if something worse than death 
comes — if I lose my reason?” 

“Have no fear of so frightful a thing,” said 
Ada, inspired by high hope. 

“Aye, but you don’t know! Mrs. Willis 
watches me and says dreadful things to me 
sometimes; she tells me not to look so, or do 
that, for, being different from other people, I 
ought to be careful, because my mother was not 
in her right mind, until sometimes I have doubts 
of my sanity. ’ ’ 

“She’s a cruel, wicked woman!” exclaimed 
Ada; “don’t believe a word she says.” 

“How can I disprove a word she says?” asked 
the girl, a hopeless gloom in her eyes. “When 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*3! 

she told me one day that my father wished me 
to marry her son, I did not believe her, and went 
to him and begged him to tell me if it was not 
false. He told me that it was true, that he had 
consented to it, and so willed it — that when he 
died I would need a protector, and that Airs. 
Willis would be a mother to me. But now, 
good night.” When she kissed Ada, she kissed 
a warm tear from her cheek, and the sign of 
sympathy, such as she had all her lonely life 
craved and yearned for, refreshed her poor heart 
like water in the desert, or “the shadow of a 
rock in a weary land.” 

Hearing Mrs. Ogden moving about in her 
room, Ada went in, and told her what had passed 
between her cousin and herself. 

“You see, darling, it is just as I thought. It 
is dreadful. My brother has been dreaming his 
life away among books for years, isolating him- 
self from all other companionship; and this 
woman, by humoring him and taking all outside 
worrying cares off his mind, by her good man- 
agement of his affairs, has acquired such undue 
influence over him that in his present feeble con- 
dition he is powerless to shake it off. But some- 
thing must be done. Yesterday, and to-day, he 
has spoken only few words; but he is evidently 
thinking a great deal, and not pleasantly. He 
may be only waiting for some one to strike the 
first blow, and in God’s holy name I will try to 
do it, for the sake of both soul and body. If 1 


132 


ADA’S TRUST. 


fail, I will only have done my duty. But it is 
after one o’ clock, ” added Mrs. Ogden, wearily, 
“we must both try to get some sleep, so good- 
night, my darling. May our Blessed Lady be 
our help!” 

We must not think that Ada Moore had for- 
gotten her own trial or the pain of its strange 
mystery, because she was helping another to 
bear a grief even more crucial than her own. 
When, despite all she could do, memory would 
awaken the dull ache in her heart, and make her 
almost cry out for her lost happiness, she would 
resolutely turn herself away from it, and, whether 
by night or day, breathe a fervent u Hail Mary,” 
and begin to think how she could best cast aside 
all selfish broodings over her own wrongs, and 
thereby win greater freedom to assist and com- 
fort the sorrowful and the needy. Ada was 
learning invaluable lessons of endurance and 
forgiveness, and the precious art of extracting 
balm from her own grief to soothe and heal the 
wounds of other hearts. She would have been 
amazed had some friend — her cousin, the Arch- 
bishop, or Mrs. Ogden — have said to her what I 
have written, so little self-consciousness or self- 
love had she; but it is exactly what she was 
doing, nevertheless, by her brave effort to conse- 
crate her grief by a beautiful spirit of resignation 
to the Divine Will. How strangely, and without 
seeking it, had she been brought into contact 
with an actual life-history, filled up to the brim 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*33 


with sorrow and dread, with no cross, no divine 
belief, no hope to cling to, or take refuge in! 
All the highest, holiest emotions of Ada’s being 
were awakened in her generous, womanly sym- 
pathy, in her great pity, for her cousin; she felt 
chat her life would be well spent if, in helping 
her wi-th her love, she could, by God’s grace, 
bring her to the Fold of Him whom her people 
had rejected and crucified! And to this end she 
determined to bend every energy of her soul, 
having strong faith to believe that Heaven would 
be propitious to her prayers. 

The next morning found Mr. Darrall no better, 
no worse; there were no alarming symptoms ex- 
cept continued feebleness and a certain gloomy 
restlessness. Mrs. Ogden had just approached 
the door of his room when Mrs. Willis, as if by 
accident, stepped out. 

“You had better not go in now,” she said; 
“ Mr. Darrall has been threatened with a faint- 
ing attack. ’ ’ 

U I shall not disturb my brother,” she an- 
swered, gently, as she attempted to pass in. 

u But you will; I assure you he is very low 
this morning,” replied the housekeeper, placing 
herself in the way. u The doctor has forbidden 
any one but myself to be with him.” 

“Move aside, Mrs. Willis, and allow me to 
pass; I assume the responsibility of my act,” 
said Mrs. Ogden, with so commanding an air 
that the housekeeper involuntarily moved away, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


and followed her in with a look of intense hatred 
in her eyes. 

Mr. Darrall smiled, and held out his white, 
wasted hand: saying, “I was just wishing for 
you, Mary; it is good to feel that you are here.” 

“You look better; do you not feel better?” 
she said, leaning over to kiss him. 

“Oh, yes! if the absence of actual pain, and 
not being in the very act of dying, is any sign, 
I suppose I am.” 

“Here is your orange- water, Mr. Darrall,” 
said Mrs. Willis, handing it to him. He took a 
few sips of it, and gave it back to her. She then 
stirred the fire, drew the window-curtain so as to 
shut out the sun-glare, spread a light silk quilt 
over his feet, and went to the table on the other 
side of the room, and began to arrange the med- 
icine vials and other things upon it. Her back 
was towards them. Mrs. Ogden then quickly 
and quietly placed in his hands a strip of paper 
on which she had written, in clear, distinct char- 
acters: “I must speak to you alone.” He read 
the words, a slight glow suffused his face, and a 
painful expression of indecision was apparent; 
but how could he refuse her, that tender, faith- 
ful sister? Had he not also somewhat to say to 
her? Now was the opportunity; if deferred for 
a day, it might be too late; and his will so long 
torpid, his very manhood so long inert, asserted 
themselves, and, speaking in a tone which Mrs. 
Willis had almost forgotten, he said: “Madame, 


ADA’S TRUST. 1 35 

you will please leave me alone with my sister for 
an hour.” 

She started, dropped a spoon she had in her 
hand, so much was she surprised; her face grew 
crimson, and her eyes sparkled with anger: “I 
will leave you altogether, sir, if you mean to kill 
yourself — Pit have no hand in it; I’ll go and 
pack up my things right now. ’ ’ 

“Just as you please about that,” said Mr. Dar- 
rall, speaking out boldly, now that the spell was 
broken; “only oblige me by leaving my room at 
once, that I may have a private conversation 
with my sister. ’ ’ His voice and manner were 
stern, but Mrs. Ogden observed that every nerve 
of his sensitive face was quivering, and really 
dreaded the result of such unwonted excitement. 
Mrs. Willis burst into tears, and left the room 
muttering, but forgot to shut the door after her. 

“Shut that door, Mary, and turn the key,” 
said Mr. Darrall, fully roused; “now give me 
some orange-water, with just three drops of that 
red mixture in it. I shall be all right in a mo- 
ment. What thraldom I have suffered, I only 
know by my present sense of freedom. Help 
me, Mary, for I have sinned — sinned by aban- 
doning every duty for my own selfish indul- 
gence. ’ ’ 

Then Mrs. Ogden, holding his hand tenderly 
between both her own, after a few loving words, 
f began and told him all she had observer and 
learned since she had been there: how that 


136 


ADA'S TRUST. 


woman, by her innuendoes and hints, had 
made Judith believe that her mother was de- 
ranged and had committed suicide, and that she 
was already showing symptoms of the mental 
disease inherited from her, until the poor girl 
was so tortured by the dreadful fancy, that it 
would end in a reality unless means were at 
once taken for her relief; and finished by asking 
him if it were a fact, that he had promised his 
daughter in marriage to his housekeeper’s son. 

“And is it possible that all this has been going 
on around me, while I supinely left such dan- 
gerous power in the hands of that ignorant, ava- 
ricious woman? Oh, Mary, I have a great deal 
to blame invself for! I see it all: God grant it 
may not be too late to repent and remedy things! 
It is true that there was a mystery about my 
poor Leah’s death; but I solemnly declare that 
up to the hour when she left the house to go to 
the lake for pond-lilies, she was as happy and 
light-hearted as the day was long. There was 
nothing morbid in her character, nothing eccen- 
tric; she enjoyed the very sense of living, and 
shrank like a frightened child from the thought 
of death. Her love for her baby was a passion, 
a species of tender adoration, and her joy in its 
possession was indescribable. Our married life 
had been like a beautiful idyl; no cloud, no jar, 
had ever disturbed our happiness. Is it likely 
that she would voluntarily have abandoned all 
that made life precious to her, to seek death? 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*37 


Impossible! The only solution of the mystery, 
is this: she was so fond of the lake, which lies 
within the limits of my property, that I had 
a small, light skiff built for her, and she soon 
learned to row with great dexterity. Sometimes 
she took her baby and nurse with her, but on that 
fateful day, although it was clear and bright, she 
thought the wind was too keen for the little crea- 
ture, and went off alone, saying she would soon 
be back. I heard her go past my window, sing- 
ing an Eastern air she loved. I felt no un- 
easiness, for I had made her promise me never 
to venture on the lake when it was windy. I 
suppose she must have got into the boat to 
rest herself after the walk, and enjoy all the 
wild tangle of beauty that framed the water 
— I am sure it was so, for a promise to me 
was as sacred as an oath in her sight. The 
paynter which secured the skiff to a post of the 
boat-house must have been carelessly knotted, 
must have come loose, and, before she knew it, 
she had drifted away from the shore without 
paddle, or oar, or any help whatever, for even 
the seats of the skiff were nailed down beyond 
the power of her poor little hands to wrench 
them up. I know, as well as if I had seen her, 
how frightened she was; for the wind had risen, 
and the water was rough, and how, in searching 
the bottom of the skiff for a stick, or piece of 
loose board, to paddle back with, she lost her 
balance, or slipped, or stepped too much on one 


138 


ADA’S TRUST. 


side, and upset it. That is how I worked it all 
out afterwards. The boat was found bottom up- 
wards, floating hither and thither on the lake; 
the oars were on their rests in the boat-house, 
she had not touched them; and she — was found 
among the water-lilies on the opposite shore, 
with the long gray mosses and yellow jessamine 
that trailed down from a bending tree hanging 
like a canopy above her, while her closed eyes 
and the placid smile upon her lips almost cheated 
me into the belief that she was asleep and dream- 
ing pleasant dreams. No! no! my bright East- 
ern bird was snared by a cruel fate; she did not 
seek death. No! a thousand times no!” said 
Mr. Darrall, covering his face with his hands, 
while tears burst from his eyes. He did not feel 
or talk like other men; his life had been too 
concentrated, and he had lived too much among 
books, for his language not to be different from 
that in ordinary use; and this his one love had 
been the solitary passion and poetry of his exist- 
ence, from whose ashes there was no survival. 

“ Do not talk any more now, dearest,” said 
Mrs. Ogden, when he had grown more composed; 
“ I am convinced that it must have happened as 
you think. Some other time — ” 

“No,” he interrupted, “ the old legend of the 
House of Lorraine is mine: ‘Now or Never!’ 
Give me some of that broth on the hearth. I 
am not so weak, Mary, as I have been made to 
believe, though weak enough.” He drank the 


ADA’S TRUST. 


139 


warm, nourishing broth, and it revived him. 
After a silence of some minutes, during which 
he seemed to be making an effort to recall .some- 
thing not quite distinct in his memory, he said 
hesitatingly: ‘ ‘As to consenting to my daughter’s 
marrying Floyd Willis, I can scarcely recall it. 
While there is something that I seem to recollect, 
it eludes me when I try to grasp it, like a half- 
forgotten dream. They gave me a great deal of 
opium for a time — it may have been several 
weeks — to rest my nerves, the doctor said. I 
only remember a very drowsy, unreal sort of 
existence, with intervals of extatic exaltation 
and dreamy languor alternating, during which I 
would agree to anything rather than be dis- 
turbed. Mrs. Willis has a large fund of clever 
shrewdness, which serves her purpose better 
than a higher degree of intelligence would, and 
it must have been while I was in this irrespon- 
sible condition that she wrested such a promise 
from me. I would rather see my daughter dead 
before my eyes, than allow her to marry a fellow 
like Willis, uneducated through his natural 
stupidity, depraved in his habits, coarse in his 
manners. I see through the cunning scheme. 
My daughter will inherit a large fortune; their 
plan was to secure it to themselves by this mar- 
riage, and get rid of her by putting her into a 
mad-house if they failed to harry her to death. 
Gracious Heavens, how blind I have been!” 
“But Judith came to you, not believing what 


140 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Mrs. Willis told lier; she asked you if it were so, 
and you told her it was — that when you died she 
would need a protector, and in Mrs. Willis she 
would find a mother who would look after her 
interests!” 

“Mary! as I hope to be judged in mercy, I 
have not the slightest recollection of such an 
interview! Who told you that?” said Mr. Dar- 
rali, much agitated. 

“Judith herself, who has been nearly driven 
to desperation by both mother and son, who 
never let her forget their power over her,” said 
Mrs. Ogden, firmly, but filled with pity. 

“My God!” was all he said. It was the cry 
of his soul. 

“My dear,” she said, very tenderly, smooth- 
ing his thin hand, and leaning nearer to him, 
“ have you seen a clergyman of your own faith, 
lately?” 

“Not for many, many years. But about 
Judith — where is she? I must speak to her.” 

“Presently, dear. Tell me, if you would not 
be glad to see a priest?” 

“Well, I can’t say that I should! It has been 
so long ago — I have no faith.” 

“Not so. You bear its seal; the germ still lives, 
and you will bear it to the judgment-seat for 
weal or woe! It is choked up by perishable rub- 
bish, almost extinguished, but only awaiting the 
effort of your own will to rekindle it,” she said, 
impressively, her voice trembling with the great 


ADA’S TRUST. 


141 

hope and dread that struggled together in her 
heart. 

“Rubbish!” he repeated, thinking of his deep 
researches in science, his profound analysis of 
languages and literature, his life-long, earnest 
efforts to work out into harmonious beauty and 
divine coherence the thesis, the synthesis, and 
antithesis of human existence, as well as all the 
other mental drudgery that had occupied his 
time. And she had called it “rubbish!” Per- 
haps it was rubbish, for what had come of it? 
How had it all benefitted mankind, and what 
had he planted as a foundation for a new and 
better future for the world? Had he been mak- 
ing “bricks without straw,” and building on 
sandy, barren soil with them all these years? 
Was it indeed “rubbish” that would perish, 
while the immortal germ she had spoken of, ne- 
glected, stifled, uncared for, would rise from the 
ashes full fledged, undying, eternal, expansive, 
powerful, impassive, either to be as a god, or 
condemned to consort with the condemned 
through endless ages, according to the deeds of 
the flesh. ‘ ‘ Rubbish ! perhaps it is, ” he thought. 
Presently he turned the conversation into a dif- 
ferent channel, and she would not urge him then. 

Much passed between them, and it was de- 
cided that in the future Judith should take Mrs. 
Willis’s place in her father’s room, and that Mrs. 
Ogden should start that afternoon in the carriage 
- for Old Point Comfort, to take the early morning 


142 


ADA’S TRUST. 


boat for Norfolk. Mrs. Willis saw that the tide 
had turned, and she changed her tactics. In a 
state of subdued fury, and with an injured air, 
she moved about the house, performing only 
such duties, in the sick-room and out of it, as 
were necessary. She knew that there was a lib- 
eral bequest in Mr. Darrall’s will for her, and 
she must so trim her sails that he would not re- 
voke it; for now that she feared her avaricious 
plans were on the eve of melting into thin air, 
it would be worth while to swallow her disap- 
pointment to secure that, and whatever else she 
could lay her hands on with safety when the final 
settlement came. As mav be imagined, she re- 
garded Mrs. Ogden as the cause of her downfall, 
and hated her with a rancor that only such na- 
tures, unrestrained by religion, can feel. 

On the third day Mrs. Ogden returned a little 
after sunrise, having travelled all night, accom- 
panied by a priest and Mr. Darrall’s lawyer, both 
present in obedience to his own wishes. “It will 
do no harm for them to come,” he had said, by 
way of consenting to their presence; “but do not 
hope too much, Mary; I have held the reins of 
my own will and reason too long to submit to 
check-bit or spur now. ’ ’ 

“I have strong hope that the ‘little germ’ is 
only waiting your will to free it from the debris 
of a wasted life that smothers it, to spring up 
into fruition, never to fade again, my dear,” she 
said, with earnest faith and tenderness, as she 


ADA’S TRUST. 


!43 


leaned over to kiss him ere she left. As she went 
out, closing the door after her, he murmured: 

u( Rubbish’ first and now a 4 wasted life!’ 
Are these the words of a religious enthusiast, or 
have they a deeper meaning?” The more he 
pondered over them in her absence, the more 
surely did he feel that the wings, which he had 
proudly thought were bearing him to the very 
sun, were melting, and that Icarus-like, he 
would fall whence he had risen, bruised, and 
shorn of his glory. Then, for the first time in 
his life, the thought of annihilation after death 
suggested itself, and filled his mind with such a 
vague horror that he stretched out his arms as 
if for help, exclaiming: u Rather a life of eternal 
torment than that!” To live on, only to go on 
living forever! But how? He always aspired to 
the highest, noblest, supremest! He hated all 
that was low, grovelling and unclean! Which 
of these lives would be his destiny? Mr. Dar- 
rall’s mind was too logical not to give scope to 
these questions, which had never troubled him 
before, and his mental forces found ample occu- 
pation in their analysis and the new vista opened 
to him. 

After breakfast, Mrs. Ogden came in to him, 
leaving her guests with Judith and Ada, until 
she saw if he were ready to receive them. He 
was looking decidedly better than when she left 
him three days before, and she expressed her 
joy at the change. 


*44 


ADA'S TRUST. 


“Yes, I am better, but there is something I 
wish to attend to before I see your friends. An 
hour from this, come to me with Judith and Ada. 
I will send for Mrs. Willis and her son. I have 
a disagreeable duty to perform, and the sooner 
it’s over, the better. Afterwards I shall be 
pleased to see the gentlemen.” 

“Are you quite sure of your strength?” 

( ‘ Perfectly so. It must not only be, but it must 
be evident that my act is voluntary.” 

Mrs. Ogden did not know exactly what he 
meant, and returned to the parlor, which had 
been sunned, and aired, and dressed with flowers 
by Judith and Ada to welcome her back, the 
cheerfulness of its aspect heightened by a bright 
little fire of pine-cones on the hearth, around 
the edge of which magnificent rosy sea-shells 
were ranged fender- wise. “My brother begs to 
be excused for an hour or two,” she said to the 
gentlemen, “after which he will be perfectly free 
to welcome you.” 

“Until then, Mrs. Ogden, we will go down to 
the beach with our cigars, ’ ’ was the pleasant re- 
sponse, as they got their hats and started out for 
a prolonged stroll. 

At the appointed time Mr. Darralks family 
assembled in his room; Mrs. Ogden, Judith and 
Ada forming one group, the housekeeper and her 
son another, the two latter standing near the 
foot of his bed. The sick man’s face wore a 
stern aspect: never had he looked more impos- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


HS 


ing, as, leaning against his pillows, almost sit- 
ting upright, he glanced around him. Then he 
spoke, addressing Mrs. Willis and her son, before 
them all, and gave them to understand in brief, 
forcible language, that he revoked entirely and 
decisively the consent which had been wrung 
from him when he was so under the influence of 
opium that it was impossible to resist the impor- 
tunities to a marriage between his daughter and 
Floyd Willis; that had he not been almost nar- 
cotized, had he been clothed in his right mind, 
with strength to express his will, he would have 
died before he would have consented to a mar- 
riage so utterly unsuitable for his daughter, par- 
ticularly since it had come to his knowledge that 
the thought of such a thing had made her utterly 
miserable. 

u She’s got more’n that, sir, as you well know, 
to make her miserable,” said Mrs. Willis, touch- 
ing her forehead significantly. “It’s brooding 
over that , and not the thought of marrying as 
good-looking, honest a young man as any girl 
might be proud to get.” 

u Silence!” said Mr. Darrall, in a stern voice, 
while the old fire flashed out of his eyes with 
such a terrible look of anger that the woman 
towards whom his glance was directed recoiled a 
step and grasped her son’s arm. Mr. Darrall 
turned to his daughter and held out his hand, 
while she, to whom this scene, this release, was 
a revelation of unlooked-for happiness, who had 
5 * 


ada’s Trust. 


14 6 

stood until this moment surprised and motionless, 
knelt and grasped it, resting her cheek upon it, 
and finally, overcome with mingled emotions of 
joy and wonder, buried her face against the pil- 
lows that supported him, to hide her happy tears. 

u J have but little else to say, but that little 
means much to you both,” said Mr. Darrall, 
deeply touched: U I will not request you to 

leave my house until you have made satisfactory 
arrangements for yourselves elsewhere. You 
have saved enough to live comfortably on. Nor 
will I revoke the provision which, ignorant of 
your wicked plans, b made for you in my will for 
your long and faithful services , unless you forfeit 
it by violating certain conditions. Henceforth 
my daughter, sister, niece, and whomsoever I 
will, are to have at all times free admission to 
me. I dispense with your services entirely, 
Mrs. Willis. I am not so ill as I was made to 
believe I was; it is yoiir secret how and why I 
have been brought to this pass.” 

“It’s your own doings, sir; and so I have told 
you ag’in and ag’in. Anybody that did nothing 
year in and year out, but read, read, read and 
write, ’mongst them old, bad-smelling, musty 
books and rubbish, not sleeping nor yet eating 
like a sensible human being, or ever going out 
for a breath of fresh air, would be brought to 
just such a state. It’s only a wonder it didn’t 
kill you,” she answered, sharply, for she was 
conscious that she was speaking the truth now. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


147 


* ( Perhaps you are right. I beg your pardon, 
madam,” said Mr. Darrall, in his quiet, gen- 
tlemanly way, quick to unsay that which was 
almost an insinuation of crime against his house- 
keeper. “Now please leave me; I am really 
very tired. And remember, Mrs. Willis, that 
the slightest annoyance from your son towards 
my daughter,” he added, laying his hand ten- 
derly on the head nestled close to him, u will 
deprive you entirely of the provision made for 
you in my will, and she — my daughter, Judith 
Darrall — shall be the judge who shall decide the 
matter. Now, Mary, I am ready to see your 
good friends.” 

Never was woman more astonished than Mrs. 
Willis at the toppling over of her finely-laid 
plans. She could not endure the thought of 
leaving the place where she had so long reigned 
as supreme mistress — of giving up her power 
over the slaves to whom her word had been law; 
and, to crown all, it occurred to her, that when 
out of sight Mr. Darrall might be influenced by 
that hateful woman (Mrs. Ogden) to alter his 
will. She was a clever woman in her way, and 
in her cogitations that night over the situation, 
she settled on her plan of action. She would 
send her son away to pay a long visit to his 
uncle in the West, but she would stay where she 
was. It would be worth being good and oblig- 
ing to everybody, to remain for the sake of the 
perquisites she would lose by going. He had 


148 


ADA’S TRUST. 


told her she could stay until she could settle on 
another home for herself; she would procrastinate 
about that, and would meantime make heiself 
more than ever indispensable in the household. 
Accordingly her son went, and she stayed, order- 
ing the ways of the household in her capable, 
masterful way, but without the old bluster and 
arbitrariness that had often made the lives of 
those under her sway unendurable. Henceforth 
she wore an injured as well as a subdued air. 
She did not show herself in Mr. Darrall’s room, 
until one day his youthful nurses, finding that 
their inexperience made him uncomfortable, 
asked his permission to get her assistance. She 
understood exactly the conditions that would en- 
sure his comfort, and how to prepare the nourish- 
ments he most relished and serve them without 
fuss; she knew how he liked his pillows ar- 
ranged, and the degree of light and heat that he 
preferred. His young nurses were so afraid of 
doing something wrong that they fidgetted and 
dropped things, or brought him the wrong med- 
icine — for instance a sedative when a tonic was 
in order; but Mrs. Willis had a quick, noiseless 
way of serving him, which, now that her son was 
gone, made him well satisfied that she had not 
yet taken her departure. Judith and Ada could 
talk pleasantly, bring him flowers, read to him, 
and show their affection in many winsome ways, 
all ol which were as precious balms to the spirit 
of the lonely man; but for actual, practical help, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


I49 


the silent, glum housekeeper was, after all, the 
tower of strength. The servants, always quick 
to see, noted the change, and speculated among 
themselves as to the cause, but could make 110th- 
no thing of it. u ’L,ess she’s under conviction 
for her sins,” said the head man among the 
slaves, who was a preacher, 4 ‘ an’ I tell you, nig- 
gers, de grace didn’t come none too soon. She’s 
po’ white folks, but she’ll git ’ligion some of 
dese days, an’ I tell you when it do come to ones 
like her, there’ll be sumpfin like a y earthquake. ” 
They were satisfied with what the oracle said, 
and went on waiting patiently for Mrs. Willis’s 
u yearthquake, ” giving themselves no further 
concern about her, except to obey orders, for she 
still kept up discipline. 

There was no need for the lawyer to revisit his 
client, but the Catholic clergyman, Father 
Knowlton, a man of great learning and cultiva- 
tion, came regularly once a week, to Mr. Dar- 
rall’s gratification, who found in him a keen, 
subtle reasoning power with which he liked, 
though often worsted, to measure his weapons. 
Mr. Darrall’s defences were falling one by one; 
little by little the rubbish was being removed 
from the hidden germ, and sometimes a heavenly 
dew, or a ray of celestial sunshine, would pene- 
trate to it, warming and revivifying it with the 
mystery of a new birth. The thought often 
came to his mind unbidden that eve-n his igno- 
rant housekeeper had called his most precious 


ADA’S TRUST. 


ICO 

earthly treasures, “rubbish;” Mrs. Ogden had 
told him that the labors of his long years were 
all u rubbish,” and that his life had been wasted! 
The man’s pride of intellect and self-love were 
both wounded and humiliated. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


x S r 


CHAPTER IX. 

“more sinned against than sinning. ” 

The dinner party at Mr. Garnet’ s, given in 
honor of Mr. Douglass Mercer, to which only a 
chosen few of the most agreeable young people 
in society had been invited, proved a brilliant 
success; for with so much tact and savoir-faire 
did the young hostess always preside on these 
social occasions, that each one of her guests was 
made to feel himself “the star of that goodlie 
companie,” a sensation which, more than any 
other in the world, incites people to put forth 
their most agreeable efforts to please. 

Daisy Garnet, as you know, had good rea- 
son to be shy of Mr. Mercer, whose slightly 
distrait manner and distinguished appearance 
had already won for him the social verdict 
of being “perfectly fascinating.” She was not 
blind to his attractions; but his presence not 
only made her very uncomfortable, but re- 
buked her, and almost inspired her with a 
sensation of dread. Truth to say, Mr. Mer- 
cer, although highly intelligent and unexcep- 
tionable, as the world goes, also ambitious to 
win a high place in his profession, had one or 
two weak spots in his composition, which if not 


152 


ADA’S TRUST. 


amended promised to impair the otherwise fine 
promise of his life. He was vain above the 
common, but was too well-bred, and had too 
much skill and good taste, to let it show on the 
surface. Added to his vanity, he had an inordi- 
nate degree of self-love, which made him imag- 
ine himself irresistible to women, many of 
whom, it must be said, had by their conduct 
encouraged his delusion. These were Douglass 
Mercer’s secret and cherished faults; otherwise 
he was a generous, honorable fellow. Daisy 
Garnet’s beauty, her dash, and a certain yet 
almost imperceptible reserve in her manner 
towards him — felt rather than seen — piqued his 
interest, and excited his admiration. He would 
have her as his friend, he determined; there was 
no nonsense in her; she had ’brains as well as 
vivacity; he would make her his confidante , and 
he assured himself that her quick, sympathetic 
woman’s wit would help him to discover the 
beautiful inconnue with whom he imagined him- 
self so desperately in love. All this shows 
exactly the weak side of the man’s character; 
but human nature is very much like a u teeto- 
tum,” which with three winning sides has a 
fourth that is nil , whicli is just as apt to face up 
after a twirl as one of the others. 

After dinner, allowing time for the gentlemen 
to take more wine and smoke with Mr. Garnet, 
Daisy and her friends went away to the drawing- 
room, where they compared notes and gossiped 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*53 


with many a ringing laugh, while a few hints, 
whispered under the breath, were passed from 
one to another, of Daisy’s evident designs on the 
handsome stranger. u Cousin Charley” was 
present at dinner, of course — Charles Francis 
Chapman, known to his chums as Frank, and in 
his own family-circle as Charley. He left the 
dining-room to find out if there was to be danc- 
ing, and how soon. He was not fond of wine, 
but would have been satisfied with one meal a 
day, if he could have been assured of a dancing 
frolic at the end of it; and without being a good 
player, he was devoted to billiards. 

u We’ll dance very little, I imagine,” said 
Daisy, with just a ghost of a yawn; “it is much 
too soon after dinner to begin now, so do ask 
papa to take the gentlemen into the billiard- 
room for an hour: will you? If any of you pre- 
fer coming up to hear some music, or to flirt, 
you can do so.” 

“That’s the very thing the fellows will like — - 
I mean billiards. You know exactly how to 
fix things,” said Charley, making his exit with 
a grin of delight. After a while the servant 
man came in to remove the Turkish rugs from 
the waxed floors, and Daisy, with her guests, 
fluttered up-stairs to consult the mirror, prepara- 
tory to the informal dancing, valsing , polkas, 
and other frivolities in the shape of round 
dances — teetotum twirls — which always end 
with nil up. Later, every one assembled in the 


*54 


ADA’S TRUST. 


drawing-room, where soon the low pleasant hum 
of voices, emphasized now and then by ripples 
of laughter, gave expression to the general sense 
of enjoyment. Partners were selected and en- 
gagements jotted down, and now piano and violin 
mingled their strains in festive chords. Some- 
how, without apparent effort on her part, Daisy 
Garnet saw that everything was en train for a 
delightful evening. Standing for a moment 
apart, to see how nicely the human elements she 
had brought together harmonized, she snatched 
the opportunity to morally collar Charley Chap- 
man as he was skipping by, on dancing thoughts 
intent. As he saw at once, by the flash of her 
eyes, that she was in no mood for trifling, he 
composed the hilarious expression of his visage, 
wondered u what was up,” and stood awaiting 
her pleasure. 

“Charley,” she said, in her clear, low-toned 
voice, “if you don’t manage to keep Mr. Mercer 
away from me, I’m perfectly sure that out of 
sheer desperation I shall blurt out everything. 
You coaxed me into that scrape, and now leave 
me in the breach! ” 

“Bless my soul, Daisy, what a charge!” an- 
swered Charley; “what am I to do with the 
man ? ’ ’ 

“Make yourself agreeable and useful to him; 
cultivate a better acquaintance with him ; intro- 
duce him to the prettiest girls you know. You 
stand off like an innocent lamb, not caring in 


ADA’S TRUST. 


155 


the least for my worry. Knowing what I do 
makes me feel as mean as if I had stolen some- 
thing, or told a lie, whenever he comes near me. 

“By George, so do I,” said the young fellow, 
with a grin. 

“Ask me to waltz this instant, for there he 
comes. Oh, I wouldn’t dance with him for the 
world!” said the girl quickly; and before Mr. 
Mercer reached them, the first and third waltz 
were down for Charley, the intermediate one and 
several others being also promised. 

u I am unfortunate,” he said, after having 
asked her to give him a waltz and heard her 
answer. 

“No: only too late, Mr. Mercer,” said Daisy, 
flashing her brightest smile upon him. “But 
you will not regret it, for I mean to introduce 
you to the loveliest girl you ever saw. She had 
an engagement which prevented her from dining 
with us, but she promised to come later, and 
there she is. Come;” and Daisy laid her gloved 
hand lightly on his arm, barely touching it, and 
led him away to introduce him to the beautiful 
girl who had just entered. It was all quietly, 
gracefully done; there was nothing Mr. Mercer 
could find fault with. He saw that he was en- 
vied by some gentlemen who had pressed for- 
ward to engage Miss Beigli; he saw that she was 
in truth faultlessly beautiful; but he felt as if he 
had been defrauded of his choice all the same, 
although she bowed and smiled her acceptance 
in the most gracious and winning way. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*56 

“It’s awfully stupid to have to valse with 
you,” said Daisy, as Charley led her off; u but we 
must keep up appearances.” She was greatly 
relieved by having disposed of her u foe,” though 
not feeling particularly exhilarated. But Char- 
ley’s heels sufficed for his brains, and gave solace 
for his momentary mortification after a few 
turns; dancing was his passion, the poetry and 
exhilaration of his existence, and its panacea. 
And by her tact, aided by Charles Chapman, 
Daisy kept Mr. Mercer at bay all the even- 
ing, which only made him more determined to 
win — what? Her friendship? Perhaps her ad- 
miration, which was the incense he most de- 
lighted in. 

One morning, too early for visitors, Charley 
Chapman called, on his way down town, to see 
Daisy. He was told she was in the flower-gar- 
den, and there he sought her. Being a relative, 
he had the privilege of coming and going with- 
out ceremony. She had on a pale canary-colored 
lawn, with some fluttering loops and ends of red 
ribbon catching up a fold here and there, and a 
Tuscan straw garden-hat shaded her face. She 
was cutting roses. She heard his footsteps on 
the gravel, and raised her head — her bright, hand- 
some face seeming to reflect the spirit of the 
beautiful which surrounded her in such profuse 
luxuriance. 

u What in the world has brought you here so 
early? I can’t shake hands,” she said, laugh- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*57 


ing, “but I’ll give you a carnation presently, to 
reward you for breaking through your bad 
habits. ’ ’ 

“You look so pretty out here with your flowers, 
that I don’t regret losing my morning nap. I 
declare it’s refreshing!” said the good-natured 
fellow. “I knew I should find you alone, so I 
came to tell you the result of my efforts to be 
friends with Mercer.” 

u Well?” she said, standing quietly before 
him, a spray of crimson roses in her hand. 

“The truth is, Daisy, I feel rather conscience- 
stricken whenever I meet him, and it’s con- 
foundedly awkward trying to make myself 
agreeable. I show to disadvantage, you know, 
and I declare, if I were not your cousin, I be- 
lieve he’d look on me as a bore, and snub me.” 

“Do you know, Charley, that we’re in a 
pretty serious scrape, and I’m glad you realize 
the fact,” she said, seriouslv. 

“But I don't . I think it’s all foolishness the 
way you take it. Who knows anything about it 
except us two ? It’s disagreeable having Mercer 
here on such a fool’s errand, I admit; but he’ll 
go back no wiser than when he came, don’t you 
see?” 

“Charles Francis Chapman!” said Daisy, 
flashing her black eyes full on him, c ‘ I know it , 
and that’s enough. I’m awfully independent, 
and enjoy upsetting conventionalities sometimes; 
but I have never told or acted a lie, or done any- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*58 

thing mean, before, in all my life. Mark my 
words, we haven’t heard the last of it.” 

“I wish the fellow was in Siberia. I don’t 
care a snap, so far as I’m concerned — he brought 
it upon himself; he might have known that 
some fellow would take up that advertisement 
just for the fun of the thing. But I hate to see 
you so cut up about it, Daisy, I declare I do! I’m 
sorry I ever said a word to you about it,” said 
Charley, with almost tears in his eyes. 

u I’m sorry you did; but having done so, you 
know very well that you couldn't have per- 
suaded me, if you had tried, to put my finger 
into the pie, if I hadn’t thought it would be good 
to do so. I did it of my own free will. How 
did either of us know we should ever see or hear 
of him ? or that it would turn out as it did ? I 
don’t blame you half as much as I do myself; it 
is not the sort of thing' for a girl to mix herself 
up in. If he’d only go away! — but he won’t, and 
he comes here every day of his life! He’s com- 
ing this evening to introduce a friend of his, a 
Mr. Paul Thornton, from New York,” said 
Daisy Garnet, with a worried look. 

“I’ll drop in, if you like.” 

“No: don’t. It makes me feel the guilt of 
a conspirator to have you around, giving me 
looks every little while. It seems to me that 
you haven’t a single misgiving, Charley, about 
the principle of the thing. I had not, until the 
awkwardness of possible discovery suggested it.”' 


ADA’S TRUST. 


^59 


And, she might have added, the grave disap- 
proval of Ada Moore, to whom she had con- 
fided it. 

u Oh, pshaw! It was only a piece of fun. 
Such things often happen; just look into the 
‘ Personals ’ of the newspapers, and see for your- 
self.” 

“But that photograph, Charley! There’s the 
rub! Whose is it? I should be furious at hav- 
ing my photograph sent to a stranger, as this 
was; it would be compromising to any girl. And 
he’s not going to rest until he finds the original. ’ ’ 

“He’ll find it in a ‘Book of Beauty’ then, or 
hanging in some collection of pictures; for I’m 
sure it’s a fancy piece. You’ll find out how 
much this sort of thing is going on, if you read 
the ‘ Personals. ’ ’ ’ 

“I shall not do it. This is quite enough to 
satisfy me. Here’s your carnation, and a sprig 
of ‘rue for remembrance.’ Let me fasten it on 
your coat, then good-bye, for the breakfast bell 
has rung twice, and papa is waiting for his 
coffee. ’ ’ 

Daisy took up her basket of flowers and ran 
in, while “Cousin Charley” made his exit 
through the garden-gate, to save himself the 
trouble of going through the house and out by 
the hall-door. 

Paul Thornton, who was to be introduced that 
evening to Daisy Garnet, was the one intimate 
friend of Maurice Talbot. They had come from 


i6o 


ADA’S TRUST. 


New York together, the visit of the latter being 
urged by the necessity of his personal presence 
in closing the legal settlement of some valuable 
wharf property belonging to his father’s estate, 
which had been in litigation, but was now de- 
cided in his favor. Thornton, having nothing 
better to do, invited himself to accompany him, 
not only for the pleasure of being with him, but 
also for the purpose of meeting his friend, Doug- 
lass Mercer, who had been writing him the most 
glowing accounts of the social attractions of 
Baltimore, and of the beauty of the women who 
were its ornament and its boast, many of whom, 
he promised him, he should meet. They found 
Mercer on the platform awaiting their arrival, 
and he accompanied them to the Beltzhoffer 
House. He was cordial, genial, and full of 
pleasant talk, which, however, drew from Maurice 
Talbot courteous but cold response. They had 
met once before, on which occasion he had re- 
ceived at the hands of Mercer the death-blow of 
his dearest and most cherished hopes, of which 
the latter had been, and was, up to the present 
time, utterly unconscious. I will tell you how 
it happened, which will explain Maurice Tal- 
bot’s strange neglect of Ada Moore. The day he 
arrived in New York, the first familiar face he 
saw was that of his friend Thornton, who had 
gone to the pier to meet him and give him the 
first hand-clasp and welcome home, as soon as he 
should land. Baggage and other traps disposed 


ADA’S TRUST. 


161 

of, Maurice went into the company’s office, and 
dispatched the telegram that had made Ada 
Moore so happy on Christmas day; then they 
jumped into a carriage, and in another moment 
were on their way up town. When they reached 
Barclay street, Thornton exclaimed: 

u By Jupiter! I beg pardon, Talbot, but you’ll 
do me an everlasting favor if you’ll stop at Mer- 
cer’s office with me two minutes. I forgot 
entirely that I had made an engagement with 
him to come there at 2 o’clock — to sign some- 
thing of importance to my interests — and we 
have passed it two blocks. ’ ’ 

u Certainly!” said Talbot, pulling the check 
string; u let us walk back; the carriage may fol- 
low; I want to know how it feels to have solid 
earth under my feet once more.” Fortunately, 
Mr. Mercer, detained by some special case, had 
not yet left his office. The two gentlemen were 
invited into his elegant private sanctum, where 
every object indicated the refined taste and cul- 
ture of the occupant. After a few minutes very 
agreeable conversation, Thornton and Mercer — 
the latter excusing their absence — had to go to 
the business part of the establishment to look 
over and sign the papers. Left alone, Maurice 
Talbot went to the window and looked down on 
the busy street, then strolled over to the mantel- 
piece to examine a painting that hung above it, 
and finally resumed his seat near a table covered 

with books and magazines. He picked up a 
6 


1 62 


ADA'S TRUST. 


volume lying apart from the others — one of De 
Quincey’s, and more from curiosity than interest, 
opened it — thinking to glance over a page or two 
to while the moments away. He opened it, and 
there, between the pages, he saw the photograph 
of Ada Moore! — Ada Moore, his almost betrothed 
wife, to whom with joyous and expectant heart 
he had just telegraphed the news of his arrival, 
and that he would be on by the evening train. As 
he gazed on the beautiful winsome face, with its 
calm, truthful eyes, and bonnie smile, looking 
out from under the roses at him, he, at first, 
could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses; 
a sudden coldness thrilled through his veins and 
almost stifled his heart. Her picture here! Had 
she not told him that he had the only copy like 
this? — had he not often expressed to her his dis- 
like of seeing a lady’s photograph made common 
by being given carelessly to whoever admired 
and asked for one? While still looking at it, 
dazed and wondering how it got there, a voice 
belli nd him — Thornton’ s — exclaim ed : 

u By Jupiter! that’s a beautiful girl! Who is 
she, Mercer?” 

“The lady whom I expect to be my wife,” 
answered Mercer, gravely. 

“I beg pardon,” said ^Maurice Talbot, replac- 
ing the photograph where he had found it; “I 
took up the book, and it 'naturally opened — • 
just where it should not. Are you through with 
your business, Thornton?” What a brave, firm 


ADA'S TRUST. 


163 

effort he made to appear calm and unconcerned, 
while feeling as if he had received a mortal blow! 
He had built so many fair, pure hopes — he had 
counted 011 so much happiness 011 meeting her, 
and hearing from her own lips a confirmation of 
his beautiful dreams ! He scarcely heard Thorn- 
ton, who was saying: 

u Yes, Mercer has pulled me through, I’m 
thankful to say. Shall we go now?” 

“Hold on a moment, Thornton; don’t shame 
my hospitality by going off without drinking a 
‘Welcome home’ to Mr. Talbot?” said Mr. 
Mercer, in cordial tones, all unconscious of the 
mortal pang inflicted by his words a moment be- 
fore. “Sit down; here are some fine Havanas, 
and the morning papers. I’ll just run out, and 
order oysters and things” — 

“Thank you, Mr. Mercer, if you will excuse 
me; I shall have to get to my hotel as quickly 
as possible. Some other time, perhaps,” he 
added, in a dreamy way. 

“Certainly, certainly; I am sorry, though. I 
hope the ‘some other time’ is in the near fu- 
ture!” was the kindly response, as they shook 
hands and separated. 

“Talbot, you look seasick; what in the mis- 
chief ails you ? ’ ’ exclaimed Thornton, taking a 
steady look at his friend, after they had seated 
themselves in the carriage. 

“Have you never heard that the aftermath of 
a sea voyage is worse than the genuine mal dr 


164 ADA’S TRUST. 

mer itself? It has made me feel chuilish, I 
fear. ’ r 

“ Your liver’s out of order, I guess. Stop and 
see the doctor on the way up,” said Thornton, 
still alarmed at the gray shadow on the face of 
his friend. 

u Perhaps it is; but, my dear fellow, the only 
things I absolutely need are quiet, a shaded room, 
and a long sleep. I don’t really want to speak 
again for twenty-four hours,” he answered, lay- 
ing his cold hands on Thornton’s knee, willing 
for him to think whatever he pleased about his 
physical condition. 

“Nothing easier, old boy; we are near the 
Astor; in a few minutes you’ll be settled as you 
wish, and so soon as you are, I shall vanish.” 

“ Thank you, dear Thornton. Your friend- 
ship is of the right sort; it trusts with generosity 
and without question. I am so obliged!” 

“All right, Talbot. ‘All’s well that ends 
well,’ you know. Here we are at last!” as the 
carriage drew up in front of the Astor House — 
at that period the most famous hotel in the city 
of New York — and in a short time, everything 
was arranged as he desired for Maurice Talbot’s 
accommodation. Then Thornton left him, very 
much disturbed and puzzled by the sudden and 
singular change that had come, without provo- 
cation, as far as he could see, over Maurice Tal- 
bot. He reviewed every moment since meeting 
him at the steamer, including the visit to Mer- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


^5 

cer’s office; he remembered the slightest incident, 
and all that had passed between them, but could 
find nothing to explain it. He gave it up, won- 
dering if he had come back with Roman fever 
lurking in his veins, or what? He thought 
of everything except the photograph he had 
found him gazing at when he and Mercer re- 
joined him after transacting their business in the 
office; and even had he thought of it, it would 
never have occurred to him that the picture of 
another man’s fiancee could have any connec- 
tion whatever with, or any influence in produc- 
ing, the effect he had observed. 

It was not for the sake of repose that Maurice 
Talbot wanted to be alone; it was to think over 
his trouble without interruption, look it squarely 
in the face, and grapple with it as best he could. 
At last the porter, who had brought in his bag- 
gage, retired, and he locked the door and threw 
himself upon a lounge, his mind confused and 
his faculties almost benumbed by the sudden 
shock he had received. It all seemed so unreal 
and dreamlike that he wondered if it could be 
he was the victim of an hallucination, or that it 
was indeed true that Ada Moore was only a 
heartless flirt who had been amusing herself at 
his expense. What else could he think? If he 
had required more positive evidence. than the 
fact of having seen this special photograph of 
her in Mr. Mercer’s possession, was not his de- 
claration that it was the picture of the ladv he 


1 66 ADA’S TRUST. 

expected to marry conclusive? Had she not as- 
sured him, when she sent him the duplicate of 
this very photograph, that he was the only gen- 
tleman to whom she had ever given one; and 
that only two were taken of her among the roses, 
one of which she had given to her aunt, the 
other to him? She must, then, have had an- 
other copy made for Mr. Mercer. And his — had 
he not received it as a pledge that she meant to 
accept him, remembering what he had once over- 
heard her say to a friend, one moonlit night on 
the English promenade at Nice, when she did 
not know that he was near her, that she “had 
made up her mind never to give her photograph 
to a gentleman unless she intended to marry 
him.” And when, afterwards, she sent it, what 
stronger confirmation did he need, of his hope to 
win her? She had not plighted her troth to him 
in so many words; but she had admitted that she 
cared for him, and he felt safe to believe that she 
meant to do so when, the time of his probation 
over, he returned home. “And now, God help 
me!” said the poor young fellow; “she has 
turned false! I believed her the purest, truest 
being on earth, and she, all the time, a heartless 
flirt. It seems too monstrous for belief! But. 
how can I doubt it! I will never allow myself 
to be duped again, God helping me. She knew 
the strength and depth of my love for her; I had 
no reserves from her; and she gave me hope, she 
led me on, on — and now, to have it end like 


ADA’S TRUST. 


167 


this!” He covered his face with his hands to 
press back the hot tears that burst from his eyes. 
In this way he passed the night, wrestling with 
his grief ; and when daylight shone through his 
v indows he snatched up his hat, threw on his 
overcoat, went down to the street, and walked 
rapidly away to St. Peter’s Church, which he 
reached in time to assist at the first Mass. Here 
the tumult of human passions began to subside 
in the presence of that adorable Mystery whence 
help and peace come. Then, with simple faith, 
as a son to his tender mother, he asked the help 
of Mary ever-blessed, in this his hour of trouble, 
assured that she would lead and succor him. He 
thought, at first, he would write to Ada Moore 
and tell her why he did not follow his telegram 
to Baltimore; but of what use would reproaches 
be now, he considered, when he knew she had 
thrown him over for another man ? His trial 
was not an easy thing to get over; he felt that an 
evil day had come upon him; but after many 
weeks, when the first shock and the first natural 
outcome of his grief yet held him in bonds, he 
began to realize that it was time he made an 
effort to loose himself from them. He had his 
life to live, and its work to do, and he knew that 
for the right fulfilment thereof he was responsi- 
ble to God. Prom a duty like this nothing could 
absolve him, and he girded himself for the task. 
His character was well poised, and being a con- 
scientious Catholic it had never occurred to him 


1 68 


ADA’S TRUST. 


to do anything desperate to escape the misery 
that, through no fault of his, had embittered his 
life. Wine, gaming, or revelling of any sort did 
not enter into his thoughts as panaceas for his 
wound; he had always regarded such remedies 
as affording only the temporary relief of forget- 
fulness, from which the awakening is but a re- 
newal of bitterness, with the added sting of sin. 
He saw there was only one thing left for him, 
and that was to bear what had befallen him in a 
manly, Christian fashion, and with such courage 
as God should give him. Having laid bare his 
heart to his spiritual friend and director, he ac- 
cepted his wise counsels, and stood by the rules 
he laid down for himself. There were times, 
naturally, when the past, with its brightness and 
its broken hopes, would surge back upon him 
full of bitter pain; and it was in one of these 
moods that Mrs. Ogden’s telegram reached him, 
and his curt reply was sent. He thought that 
after smiting him as had been done, they should 
have let him alone. But as the months glided 
on he was sensible that the bitter tonic he had 
been forced to drink was giving strength to his 
endurance, and he so ordered his studies, his 
occupations, providing for every hour, leaving 
out the performance of no duty, religious or sec- 
ular, that when the vision of his lost love should 
come there would be no room or shelter for it. 
Soon after his return home he had received a 
letter from his lawyer, in Baltimore, requesting 


ADA’S TRUST. 


169 


him to lose no time in coming there, as his pres- 
ence was absolutely necessary to his interests, 
etc. He wrote at once to have the matter post- 
poned, indifferent as to its loss or gain; he would 
rather have lost his entire fortune than go to 
Baltimore then. But the time had come now 
when he could no longer delay going. He would 
have gladly avoided it; but as he could not, he 
determined to go, get through everything as 
quickly as he could, and return home. He 
would make no calls while there, even on old 
family friends, and receive no visitors, lest per- 
haps he should meet Ada Moore, or be obliged 
to hear a great deal of the current talk about 
her wedding; for he had settled it in his own 
mind that Mercer’s object in being in Baltimore 
was his approaching marriage. 


170 


ADA’S TRUST. 


CHAPTER X. 
l’inconnu. 

Ignorant of the unhappiness he had brought 
into Maurice Talbot’s life by his silly intrigue, 
and really wishing to be better acquainted with 
him, Mercer called the following day for the 
purpose of inviting him and Thornton to dine 
with him that evening. Only Thornton hap- 
pened to be in, and he thoughtlessly accepted 
the invitation for both, well pleased at so good 
an opportunity to bring his two friends together, 
assured that they would both find a better 
acquaintance mutually agreeable. 

For reasons which did honor to his heart, 
Maurice Talbot had made one exception to his 
resolution not to visit, and that was a call on old 
Mr. Reid, his father’s life-long friend, who was 
so overjoyed to see him that the ills of gout, pov- 
erty, and the vulgar, levelling fashions of the 
modern era, were forgotten for the time being. 
Old friendships reaching far back into his boy- 
hood, old loves, old pleasures, were all revived 
by the sight of the son of the dearest friend he 
ever had. u Your eyes, my boy,” he said, u are 
like your mother’s, which were the sweetest, 
gravest eyes I ever saw; the rest of your face is 


ADA’S TRUST. 


171 


the living image of your father’s. I heard a 
great deal about you at Christmas from a very 
lovely young lady whom you met abroad — yes — 
I may say that any gentleman ought to feel hon- 
ored by a place in her memory.” 

“I feel duly honored, I assure you, sir,” said 
Talbot, knowing intuitively who was meant; 
while his heart, not under such control as his 
voice, gave an audible throb, sending the blood 
to his face. 

“But, of course, you know to whom I refer, 
and I am truly sorry you have timed your visit 
when she is absent from the city.” 

u Yes, I am not mistaken, I think, in suppos- 
ing the lady you refer to is Miss Moore. I met 
her and her aunt, Mrs. Ogden, abroad,” he said, 
with sudden interest. “When did they go 
away ? ’ ’ 

“Well, it really seems an age, I miss her so; 
but in point of fact they left only ten days ago, 
and I tell you, my boy, that her absence leaves 
my old life without sunshine.” 

“I can well believe it, sir; Miss Moore is very 
fascinating,” he added, an undertone of bitter- 
ness in his voice as he remembered how she had 
dashed the sunshine out of his own life. “Where 
have they gone?” 

“To Virginia. Mrs. Ogden got unexpected 
news of the extreme illness of her eccentric 
brother, Lindsey Darrall, who lives near Cape 
Charles, on the wildest, bleakest part of the 


r 72 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Virginia coast. I did not know they were out 
of town until I called one day, and was told why 
and where they had gone.” 

‘ ‘ I was not aware that Mrs. Ogden had a bro- 
ther,' ’ said Talbot, seeing he was expected to say 
something. “Strange,” he thought, “ that she 
should have gone just as her lover came, and so 
near the wedding-day!” 

“ Yes: an only brother, to whom she is much 
attached. He was always an odd fish. He mar- 
ried, many years ago, a beautiful young Jewess 
of Damascus, who eloped with him when he left 
the East. He took his bride to a place he owned 
on that bleak, wind-blown coast, where she lived 
not quite two years. Then he shut himself up 
with his books, trying to work out impracticable 
theories beyond man’s knowledge, until he has 
become fossilized. I am truly sorry you should 
have missed them — they would have made your 
visit so pleasant;” said the courteous old man, 
only meaning to give pleasant news of absent 
friends to his visitor, proving how blindly people 
often talk, winging words that sting instead of 
heal, from their shallow thoughts. 

“We are always falling short of ( 7 vhat might 
have been ’ in this life, Mr. Reid. I ain always 
glad to meet old friends. I suppose Miss Moore 
will be married very soon now! ” 

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the old gen- 
tlemen, straightening himself up with a jerk, 
“no! As their oldest friend I must have heard 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*73 


something of it, if such were the fad;. She — 
Ada — tells m r everything that she thinks will 
cheer me up; and what cheers one more than to 
hear of a wedding?” 

“This wedding, however, may be in prospect, 
and you will doubtless hear all about it when 
she gets back. Meantime, I wish her much 
happiness. Will you give me the pleasure of 
dining with me to-day ? I want to hear more 
of the good old times,” said Maurice Talbot, 
with that winning smile of his which none could 
resist. 

‘ ‘ I would with pleasure, my boy, but I am 
old, you see — age is not an agreeable thing, I 
can tell you — and I have got into such set in- 
valid habits that I’m obliged to dine early, and 
am afraid.” 

“Excuse me, but will a two-o’clock dinner suit 
— that was my dining hour abroad. I have 
fixed my heart on having you to dine and spend 
the rest of the day wi th me. ’ ’ 

“Yes: yes, indeed. I shall enjoy it amazingly. 
But where are you putting up?” 

‘ ‘At ‘ Beltzhoffer’s. ’ Now good-bye, and thank 
you for the promised pleasure.” 

Mr. Reid, with old-fashioned punctiliousness, 
came on the stroke of two by the town clock, and 
Maurice Talbot was there to welcome him. He 
had engaged a private parlor in which to entei 
tain his old friend, where their dinner was 
served, and the time passed pleasantly until the 


174 


ADA’S TRUST. 


servant; wlio had attended to them came in to 
light the lamps — there was no gas-light in the 
old city then — and Mr. Reid, glancing at his 
watch, arose to go. Maurice Talbot insisted on 
walking home with him, and before they parted 
got him to promise to take a drive with him the 
next afternoon. 

It was quite dark when he got back to the 
Beltzhoffer House. He walked to the dining- 
room, thinking that perhaps he should find 
Thornton there, idling over his dessert; but the 
tables were nearly deserted, and he was not 
among the few persons who had come in late 
and were leisurely taking their dinner. So he 
ran up-stairs to their apartment, where he found 
his friend stretched on a lounge, enjoying a 
cigar, while he skimmed over a New York paper 
— a perfect image of lazy contentment. 

u You look as if you might have grown up 
here, Thornton,” said Maurice Talbot, as he 
came towards him, an amused smile on his face, 
”1 never saw a fellow more at home!” 

u Talbot, where in the mischief have you 
been all day? I was just thinking about going 
to the police-office to notify them of your disap- 
pearance and order out a bell-man to look you 
up,” answered Thornton, in the drawling tone 
that he sometimes affected, as he turned towards 
his friend. 

“ Nonsense, Thornton. Pass me a cigar,” 
said Talbot, as he dropped his hat on one chair, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


I 75 


and himself in another that was constructed and 
cushioned just to lounge and doze in. He took 
out his little silver case of wax lucifeis, and lit 
the cigar that the other reached him. 

4 4 1 was uneasy, Talbot ; mysterious disappear- 
ances are not uncommon, you know; and yours 
would have made it particularly awkward for 
me, as I have accepted a dinner invitation for 
you to-morrow.” 

u Where, pray? You know I do not mean to 
accept invitations while here — I told you that. 
I must say that you should have left it to me to 
accept of decline, as it suited me,” said Talbot, 
hotly; u besides, I have other engagements for 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

u Beg pardon, old fellow. So I should have 
waited. I almost wish now you had disap- 
peared; then my share of the responsibility 
would have ended. You must write a regret at 
once,” said Thornton, between puffs of smoke. 

u To whom? I haven’t heard yet who has 
invited me to dine?” 

u To Douglass Mercer. By the by, I wish 
you’d try and not be so stiff with Mercer; he’s 
a fine fellow, and — and is very anxious to know 
you. ’ ’ 

u Of course, I must send a regret at once. I 
am sorry to disappoint you by not going; also 
for not feeling more cordial towards your friend 
Mercer. He and I are instinctively antagonistic, 
I fancy.” 


i?6 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“That’s sheer animal-magnetism heresy, that 
you must have picked up abroad,” said Thorn- 
ton, in tones of the firmest conviction. It was 
the first time since they first knew each other 
that Thornton had ever known his friend to be 
unreasonable, or, as he styled it, priggish, and 
he had a great mind to tell him his opinion; but 
on second thought he held his tongue and 
smoked on. 

u And then you know, Paul,” he went on to 
say, seeing that Thornton felt the matter, “that 
two is better company than three — for of course 
Mr. Mercer will like to talk over his approach- 
ing marriage with you. ’ ’ 

“His what?” 

“His marriage; is he not to be married very 
soon, to a lady of this city?” 

“Not that I know of, unless he has persuaded 
that bright Daisy Garnet to marry him after a 
brief wooing. He seems awfully smitten in that 
direction.” 

“Is that a fact? ” 

“It is, upon my honor.” 

Then — thought Maurice Talbot — how did he 
get that photograph, and what did he mean 
when he said it was that of the lady he expected 
to marry? Am I under some dreadful mistake? 
“Well,” he said presently, “I suppose you 
know. ’ ’ 

“I should think so, faith! Mercer confides 
most of his affairs of the heart to me. ’ ’ 


ADA’S TRUST. 


177 


There was nothing more said for several min- 
utes. Talbot’s mind was agitated with conflict- 
ing hopes and fears. Thornton lay watching 
the graceful spirals of fragrant smoke ascending 
from his lips, wondering vaguely what had set 
such a report afloat about Douglass Mercer. 

At last Maurice Talbot made up his mind to 
speak — he would follow the clue he had so inci- 
dentally discovered. u Thornton,” he said, “do 
you remember our visit to Mercer’s office, the 
day I got home from Europe?” 

“Certainly, I do.” 

“You will also remember, probably, that I 
was left alone for a short time in his private room, 
while you went with him to the office to sign 
papers, and when you came back you found me 
with the photograph of a lovely girl, which you 
admired, and asked Mercer who she was. Do 
you remember what lie said ? ’ ’ 

“It’s hard to remember Mercer’s nonsense; he 
has so many affairs that they get mixed, none of 
them being serious enough to be worth a second 
thought. What did he say?” 

‘ ‘ He said it was the picture of the lady who 
was to be his wife,” was the slow answer. “Do 
you know where he got that photograph ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Whew — w — w — w — ! ’ ’ whistled Thornton, 
until his breath gave out; “yes, I do know, Tal- 
bot, but I don’t think I am at liberty to tell you 
anything but this — that Mercer has never laid 

his eyes on the original of that picture, with 
6 * 


i 7 8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


which he has fallen desperately in love. I have 
tried to persuade him that it’s a fancy sketch — 
as I firmly believe it is — but he thinks he knows 
better. His business here now is to find the 
original, for it was sent from Baltimore. I had 
forgotten your unearthing the picture that day 
jin Mercer’s room.” 

U I found it by a simple accident. It lay 
within the pages of De Ouincey’s ‘Memoirs,’ 
which I took up, attracted by the title; of course, 
the book opened just there.” 

“Have you ever seen the lady?” inquired 
Thornton, flicking the ashes from the end of his 
cigar. “ It will be good news for Mercer if you 
have.” 

U I was struck by its resemblance to a lady I 
met abroad — a lady it is not likely I shall ever 
see again,” he answered, evasively, put on his 
guard by Thornton’s last remark. 

“Well, thank the gods, I am heart- free. What 
does the Scotch poet say: 

“ ‘ Love is a dizziness 
Winna’ let a puir body 
Gang aboot bis bizziness.’ 

Come, get up, and let us go to the opera; the 
Seguins open the season to-night, at Holliday 
Street Theatre, with Maritana . It is new, and 
splendidly cast, so the posters say. After the 
opera the ballet. Come, and let Mercer’s senti- 
mental nonsense go to the mischief.” 

“Go without me, that’s a good fellow,” said 


ADA’S TRUST. 


179 


Maurice Talbot, whose mind was in such a whirl 
that he felt an absolute necessity to be alone, to 
formulate and think over all he had heard that 
day. 

“ Sorry not to have your company. I’m 
awfully afraid, Talbot, that your symptoms sig- 
nal breakers ahead, or quicksands, or something; 
for as sure as I am living, I believe you are in 
love yourself,” said Thornton, a sudden light 
dawning upon him. u Who is she? — I won’t 
move until you tell me.” 

u Let me find her first, Thornton, hove has 
been a perfect will-o’-the-wisp to me,” he an- 
swered, with a grave smile. U I believe I am 
tired; so good-night, and a pleasant evening. ” 
Thornton made some pleasant rejoinder, and 
wrapping his Spanish cloak about him, he threw 
his can on and went off to revel in all the de- 

x 

lights of the opera and ballet . Maurice Talbot 
c^sed the door, put down the lights, threw open 
a window, and walked up and down the long 
room. He tried by a strong effort of his will to 
calm the distracted thoughts which stirred his 
heart into a confused tumult, and having gained 
a degree of mastery over them, he whispered a 
prayer to the Mother of Mercy to guide him and 
help him to unravel the mystery that had so 
clouded his earthly hopes — a mystery which was 
only deepened by what he had just heard. 

Meanwhile, Douglass Mercer had carried out 
his plan to conquer Daisy Garnet’s reserve; he 


i8o 


ADA’S TRUST. 


would not be rebuffed, but continued his delicate 
attentions, which were friendly as well as unob- 
trusive, until her fears were gradually quieted, 
and his presence almost ceased to bring with it a 
haunting shadow of the imprudent act which 
she so much regretted. She began to take 
pleasure in his visits and his conversation; she 
found him intellectually congenial — he had fine 
wit, as rare a gift as a pure tenor — and discov- 
ered in him some of the qualities that she most 
admired; in fact, she grew to like him so well, 
that now and then she was inclined to make a 
clean breast of it, sure that he was too good- 
natured to mind very seriously the trick that had 
been played upon him, when he heard all about 
it. Then, too, she counted on throwing most of 
the blame upon him, and making him so ashamed 
of himself as the originator of the affair that he 
would be forced to cry peccavi and smoke the 
pipe of peace with her. But, unfortunately, 
those good impulses did not grow into resolu- 
tions; for when she tested them she found that 
she lacked the courage to risk losing his esteem 
by confessing her share in the deception that 
had been practiced on him. Had she only known 
the unhappiness caused by the senseless joke of 
Charlie Chapman and herself, to the friend she 
most prized and loved on earth, a keener pain 
would have been added to her mortification, and 
ner generous nature would have cast all selfish 
considerations aside, for her dear sake. But the 


ADA’S TRUST. 


181 


discovery that would clear up the mystery was 
near at hand. 

One morning she was alone in her own pretty 
sitting-room, which communicated with her 
flower-garden by a French casement window 
that opened to the floor — a pleasant nook, 
planned by herself, which her indulgent father 
had allowed her to have added to the house, and 
to furnish according to her own taste. A raid 
into the lumber-room, and a letter to her great- 
aunt in Virginia, designating certain articles of 
furniture, black with age, and inlaid with brass — 
quaint old-fashioned things of Queen Anne’s 
time, which she begged that respected relative 
to send by the next boat — gave her all she needed 
to make the apartment look like one of two hun- 
dred years ago, after the crippled chairs, tables, 
and escritoire had been skilfully restored. Her 
friends laughed at her for collecting so much 
rubbish — as they called it — together, instead of 
furnishing the really pretty room in the new 
French styles then in vogue. “I did it,” she 
would answer, in her amiably impertinent way, 
u to keep me in mind that I had quite a number 
of grandfathers. You know such things are not 
fashionable now: people seem to get on, and 
prosper most, who have none; but, somehow, I 
like to remember mine, and with these relics 
around me I cannot forget them, if I would.” 
And the verdict of her social circle was that she 
was an odd, audacious girl, whose greatest de- 


182 


ADA’S TRLST. 


light was to be different from every one else in 
the world, but whom they liked, admired and 
wondered at all the same, convinced that their 
opinion, one way or another, had not the slight- 
est weight with her. 

She was now sitting at a table near the open 
window, her writing-desk before her, engaged in 
making out a list of persons she intended to in- 
vite to a garden-party she had arranged to give 
the following week. She stopped now and then 
to enjoy the delicious fragrance of the great 
crimson carnations, that the soft summer wind 
wafted towards her, and there stole a restfulness 
and dreaminess, blended with a hope, into her 
heart, of something so undefined that, like a 
butterfly, it eluded her grasp, just at the instant 
it was within reach. 

Her pleasant reverie was interrupted by the 
entrance of a servant with a card. She took it 
from the tray, and saw that her early caller was 
Douglass Mercer. u Where is Mr. Mercer?” she 
asked, conscious that a glow of color had risen 
to her face, and angry at the fact. 

“He’s in the hall, Miss Daisy; he said he’d 
wait there till you sent him word if you could 
see him.” 

Daisy Garnet was always appropriately and 
becomingly dressed; her own innate love of har- 
mony and the fitness of things governed her 
taste, and made it safe, as far as her toilet was 
concerned, to receive any one at unusual hours. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


l8i 

After a moment’s hesitation she east a quick 
glance at herself in the narrow, old-fashioned 
mirror that hung opposite to her, and, in obedi- 
ence to some quick impulse, directed the servant 
to “invite Mr. Mercer in; she would receive him 
there. ’ ’ 

The servant felt inwardly enlightened, for he 
well knew that only a favored and intimate few 
were given admission here, and between leaving 
the presence of his young mistress and delivering 
his message to Mr. Mercer he had settled it sat- 
isfactorily to himself, if all signs were true, that 
there would be a wedding in the family in a few 
months. 

“Don’t feel too mucn complimented at being 
received so sans ceremonie. I was busy just here, 
and too lazy to go to the drawing-room, and I 
thought you wouldn’t mind,” she said, extend- 
ing her hand to the gentleman as he entered. 

“Mind! I am only charmed, and take it very 
kindly that you have allowed me a glimpse of 
this quaint corner,” he replied, in his genial way. 

“I meant it more for my own convenience 
than as a favor to you, I assure you,” she said, 
saucily, her piquant smile excusing her speech. 
“But sit down and talk to me, won’t you? I’m 
awfully dull, and want to be amused.” 

He did sit down in a corner of the sofa that 
was nearest to her, so near that the ruffles on her 
gown brushed his feet, and he had a full view of 
her face. 


184 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“I have come to talk, Miss Garnet — that’s the 
reason why I am so especially pleased at being 
invited where we shall not be interrupted, unless 
you wish it. I have something to tell you,” he 
said while the girl’s heart gave a great throb. 
“What was coming? A declaration or — that 
other?” rushed through her mind. She waited. 

“It may be presuming, after so short an ac- 
quaintance, Miss Garnet, to ask the favor of you 
to listen patiently to what I have to say — a per- 
sonal matter, which has caused me serious an- 
noyance, and disappointment. Are you enough 
my friend to help me with your sympathy and 
advice?” 

“I am not sure that I can promise sympathy, 
and, as a rule, I never give advice: I always 
need it too much myself. But I am a good lis- 
tener,” she said, with something of her old defi- 
ant manner, very sure that a crisis of some sort 
was at hand. She was determined not to com- 
mit herself if she could avoid it, and felt very 
much as if she would have liked to send Charles 
Francis Chapman to the rack. 

“ I may depend upon your silence, I am sure, 
Miss Garnet, even if you cannot see a way to 
help me?” he questioned. 

“Oh yes, of course you may,” she said, with 
a nervous laugh. 4 4 1 am waiting your pleasure. ’ ’ 

And without any further circumlocution he 
began at the beginning, and told her everything, 
without a word in excuse of his own folly; how 


ADA’S TRUST. 


185 

between the letters he had received, and the pho- 
tograph of his fair correspondent, he had fallen 
desperately in love with her; and just as he had 
made np his mind to offer her his hand, and 
wrote her word that he was coming to seek a 
personal interview with her, the correspondence 
suddenly ceased, and the only clue left by which 
he might be able to trace her was the fact that 
all her letters were dated Baltimore, of which 
city she said she was a resident. He had left 
New York hoping to find her, as his happiness 
depended on winning her for his wife. But his 
quest so far had been in vain, and he felt greatly 
discouraged. 

Daisy Garnet knew everything already, and 
even more than he had told her; she actually 
held the key to the situation; but as he spoke, 
telling it all over with grave sincere intent, her 
courage sunk below zero. How could she ever 
acknowledge to this man, whose good opinion 
she so highly valued, and whose admiration she 
had hoped to win, that she was a party to this 
contemptible affair by which he had been fooled 
and duped ! Almost at a loss for words, she said: 
u Are you sure that some one has not played a 
trick upon you, and sent you a fancy picture? 
I have heard that c personals, ’ such as you say 
yours was, are great incentives to practical jokes, 
Mr. Mercer.” 

“It began, no doubt, in frolic, Miss Garnet; 
but a deeper sentiment was awakened — mutually 


ADA’S TRUST. 


1 86 

— as the correspondence progressed. Her letters 
were delicate in tone, pure in spirit, and spar- 
kled with wit. I know you must think me a 
fool, Miss Garnet, to place faith in the genuine- 
ness of an affair like this. I have had doubts at 
times, and almost believed my credulity was 
being played upon ; but that photograph set my 
mind at rest. It is not a fancy picture: it has 
the rounded outlines of life, which are never 
seen in a photograph taken from a painting. 
No! I am firmly convinced that it is the face of 
a living woman, and I will find her, if I have to 
seek her through the world,” said Mr. Mercer, 
with feeling. “Here it is,” he added, taking 
the photograph from his breast-pocket. “Judge 
for yourself, and tell me if you have ever seen 
that face before.” 

Daisy Garnet took the picture, dreading she 
knew not what, gave it one quick glance, and 
saw that it was the likeness of Ada Moore. An 
exclamation, almost a cry, escaped her lips, and 
a deathly whiteness overspread her countenance, 
while her dark, handsome eyes wore a fright- 
ened expression. 

u You are ill, Miss Garnet; let me call assist- 
ance. ’ ’ 

“No,” she said, with an effort; “it will pass 
off. Pray do not speak to me for a moment or 
two. ’ ’ 

To say that Douglass Mercer was astonished 
would not express his sensations. He was 


ADA’S TRUST. 


187 


alarmed, and completely at a loss what to think 
or do. The only thing clear to him was that 
Daisy Garnet had recognized the face and knew 
the original ; but even so, why should the sight 
of it have thrown her into such a panic? The 
weather was hot and sultry — perhaps it was only 
a sudden faintness; but whatever it might be, it 
had got the mastery over this high-spirited girl, 
whom he had imagined nothing could daunt. 
While these thoughts were passing through his 
mind, and both remained silent, Daisy Garnet, 
moved to compunction through her great love 
for Ada Moore, and determined that she should 
no longer occupy the false position her folly had 
helped to place her in, had made up her mind 
what to do. She remembered a half confidence 
that Ada had made to her one evening, in which 
more was implied than spoken, which left her 
under the impression that she had met with some 
recent disappointment in an affair of the heart; 
but it was all vague, nor could she win from the 
girl anything more definite. And now, by one 
of those sudden intuitive flashes of thought that 
by some swift, inscrutable process works out 
what but just now seemed a mystery, Daisy Gar- 
net was confident that this photograph in Mr. 
Mercer’s possession was connected in some way 
with the cause of Ada’s unhappiness. 

“ Yes,” she at length said ‘I have seen this 
face before. The original is the best-loved friend 
I have on earth. But neither the letters you 


ADA’S TRUST. 


1 88 

have received nor this photogroph were written 
or sent by her.” 

u How do you know, Miss Garnet? — are you 
sure of what you say ? ’ ’ 

u Perfectly sure; and to exonerate her entirely, 
at the risk of your contempt, I confess that / 
wrote those letters, and a person who has never 
seen my friend picked up this photograph at the 
gallery where it was taken, and sent it by the 
night mail in such haste that I doubt if he would 
recognize it, if he should see it, as the one he 
bought for the purpose. I did not see it at all; I 
only knew that the photograph of some pretty 
girl had been sent; I would rather have died than 
let it go, had I seen whose it was. Now I have 
told you all,” she said — the old proud, defiant 
look coming baek to her face. He should never 
know how humiliated and hurt she was before 
him, if she died for it. 

“Miss Garnet, I have nothing to reproach you 
with; my own folly is alone to blame; and I must 
confess that my Nemesis has done her part well,” 
he said, rising, and bowing with courteous dig- 
nity. U I will ask one question: if, after a time, 
I seek this lady’s acquaintance, shall I find her 
in Baltimore?” 

“This is her home, but she is absent from the 
city,” she replied, also rising, and standing be- 
fore him, stately and beautiful. “Perhaps you 
will never forgive me; but before you go, I will, 
in a spirit of reparation for my own thoughtless 


ADA’S TRUST. 


189 


folly, and indifferent as to the way you may con- 
strue it, give you friendly warning that will save 
you yet deeper pain: — the affections of my friend 
are already engaged.” 

“ Thank you, Miss Garnet, and farewell.” 
He bowed, and, without offering his hand, left 
the house. 

“And farewell, my dream!” she murmured. 
“I am caught in my own snare. But let him 
think of me as he will. By my humiliation I 
shall win back my self-respect.” Her lips 
trembled, and tears glistened on her dusky eye- 
lashes; but she dashed them off, hummed a pop- 
ular French air, and resumed the task of making 
out her list for her garden-party. 

u That’s a noble girl!” was Douglass Mercer’s 
secret thought, as he walked back to his brother’s. 
“She confessed right bravely, neither excusing 
herself nor implicating any one else. It is evi- 
dent she was entirely ignorant of whose picture 
was sent, but it was sent at her bidding. I’d 
like to get at the bottom of that part of the bus- 
iness.” Mr. Mercer was roused to a sense of his 
surroundings by being run against at a corner, 
then a hearty laugh and a familiar voice inquir- 
ing “How long since he had transformed himself 
into a battering ram,” announced Paul Thornton. 

“You’re the very fellow I wanted,” he an- 
swered as soon as he recovered his breath ; “ if you 
have nothing better to do, let’s go to some cool 
place and get a chop. I have something to tell 
you. ’ ’ 


190 


ADA’S TRUST. 


CHAPTER XL 

WHY MAURICE TALBOT CHANGED HIS MIND. 

When Thornton got back to his rooms it was 
near dusk. He had been with Douglass Mercer 
ever since their accidental but opportune meeting 
at the street corner at noon, and his mind was 
full of the strange story he had confided to him. 
At first he thought Maurice Talbot was out; but 
seeing a brilliant light through the transom of 
his door, he gave a tap, and, without further cer- 
emony, walked in, finding him with his coat off, 
busily engaged packing his trunk. He was 
going home by the evening train, he said; his 
affairs were all settled, sooner than he had 
expected, and there was no reason why he 
should remain. This was in answer to the tor- 
rent of questions Thornton poured out when he 
saw how he was occupied. 

“It’s a cavalier proceeding, I must confess; as 
we came together, you might at least have given 
me a hint of your intention, Talbot,” said 
Thornton as, leaning against the mantel, he 
surveyed the confused assortment of garments 
that strewed chairs, table and sofa in that hope- 
less sort of a way always apparent when a man 
undertakes to pack a trunk. “Hold on — don’t 


ada’s trust. 


191 


stuff your boots down into your new silk bat — 
there, by George, you’ve smashed it!” exclaimed 
Thornton, but too late. 

Maurice Talbot was not in a frame of mind to 

% 

be laughed at. He jerked out the heavy Scotch 
walking-boots, then the hat, crushed out of 
shape, and tossed them one after the other under 
the table, and began with renewed vigor to 
gather up his belongings, pitching them into his 
trunk pell-mell. Very sore at heart — he had 
been hearing so much lately that seemed to pro- 
mise explanation, but which only mystified him 
still more by its vagueness — he would have pre- 
ferred being- left alone. But what had Thornton 
to do with it all? he thought, with a tinge of 
compunction. Simply nothing; and Talbot 
knew, at the instant he spoke to him so petu- 
lantly, that had it been in his power to help him 
to regain his lost happiness, his generous heart 
would have grudged neither time nor trouble 
towards that object. 

U I have been looking for you half the day, 
Thornton, to inform you of my intention, so that 
we could return together if you were ready; but 
as you were not to be found, and I had to make 
my arrangements to be in New York to-morrow 
morning, I began to pack up, so as not to be 
hurried at the very last moment. Don’t let my 
hurrying off interfere with your movements, 
however; we have been friends too long to stand 
upon ceremony,” he said, in his usual, quiet, 
friendly tone. 


192 


ADA’S TRUST. 


“ That’s so,” said Thornton, blandly. “I 
couldn’t have gone on with you, for I have a 
dinner engagement this evening. Talbot, will 
you be good enough to let your traps alone for a 
minute or so? — your energetic movements and 
new method confuse me. I want to speak to 
you. ’ ’ 

u Certainly,” replied Maurice Talbot, tossing 
into his trunk the socks and collars that filled 
both hands. He then straightened himself up, 
and stood, his hands resting on his hips, his face 
somewhat flushed by his exertions, like a hand- 
some athlete awaiting a fresh onset. u Now,” 
was all he said, while in his heart he felt an 
indefinable prevision that he was to hear some- 
thing touching the subject which had given him 
so much pain. 4 ‘ N ow ? ’ ’ 

4 ( I have heard all about that photograph of a 
young lady we saw at Mercer’s rooms the day 
you landed,” said Thornton, quietly, and with- 
out preface; u and if you can spare time enough, 
and care to hear about it, I will tell you what I 
have heard. ’ ’ 

“I do care very much, Thornton,” he replied. 

“ But as you are so anxious to get off to-night, 
I had better write perhaps?” 

U I prefer hearing it now. Everything else 
can wait for that,” he answered, feeling almost 
certain that what was to be said would either 
clear up everything, or make him a more miser- 
able man. He was not a saint, although he had 


ADA’S TRUST. 


193 


tried to bear his trial without offending the will 
of God; but it had been a crucial one to his 
human affections, and very difficult to endure. 
It is not strange, therefore, that the very thought 
that the mystery which had so suddenly eclipsed 
his happiness might be cleared away, and things 
be restored to the old footing between Ada Moore 
and himself, should give new life and strength 
to his hopes. 

u We might as well make ourselves comfortable 
before I begin. I have trudged about over the 
hot pavements to-day until my feet are blistered ; 
and as it is a little stuffy and close here, suppose 
we go into the parlor,” said Thornton, leading 
the way into the next room, followed by Maurice 
Talbot, whose countenance wore a troubled ex- 
pression of expectancy. Thornton locked the 
door to secure them from interruption, and drew 
two chairs up in front of an open window, 
through which a pleasant breeze entered. There 
was no light in the room except that of the wan- 
ing day, so pale that it already made surround- 
ing objects indistinct. 

u Talbot, what I knew about that photograph, 
and Mercer’s craze, was just enough to make a 
first-class mystery, to say nothing of the romantic 
folly of the affair, until to-day, when, in the 
most unexpected manner, all the facts came to 
my knowledge. Before I go any further, how- 
ever, honor compels me to ask you a question or 

two which I hope, for the sake of our old friend- 
7 


194 


ADA’S TRUST. 


ship, you’ll answer without reserve. Unless >on 
do, I shall feel obliged to remain silent, as there’s 
a lady implicated in the case,” said Thornton, 
as he leaned forward, resting his hand on his 
friend’s knee. 

U I trust you entirely, Thornton,” answered 
Maurice Talbot, after a pause. It was not a 
pause of distrust, but of delicacy towards Ada, 
who was ever in his thoughts, because the 
questions might refer to her, and their former re- 
lations to each other. U I will answer you as 
frankly as you desire;” he added, U but in the 
strictest confidence.” 

‘ ‘ Do you remember, Talbot, that in several of 
your letters to me from Europe you mentioned a 
lovely girl whose acquaintance you had made, 
one who was travelling with her aunt? You did 
not mean to betray the growing interest and af- 
fection she inspired; I guessed your secret, how- 
ever, probably before you knew it yourself, and 
waited for your confidence, but in vain — and 
being too proud to ask it, I contented myself 
with chaffing you now and then.” 

u Of course I remember it. I had the best of 
reasons for my reserve. I had only hope, and 
until later no certainty that she cared for me. 
On the very eve of their leaving Europe — hei 
aunt and herself — she consented to a conditional 
engagement, which would leave us both free at 
a certain time in case the inclination of either 
urged it. It was hard, I thought — but I had 
such faith in her!” 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*95 


•‘Now, Talbot — pardon me if I name her even 
in sacred confidence — was the photograph you 
saw at Mercer’s, the likeness of Ada Moore?” 
“It was, and you may imagine my astonish- 
ment at seeing it there, when she had assured 
me there was no duplicate of the one she sent 
me, and when I had once overheard her — acci- 
dentally — tell a friend that she would never give 
her photograph to any gentleman except the one 
she meant to marry. All this rushed into my 
mind on finding the picture that day between 
the leaves of the book I opened. But you can 
never understand the blow that Mercer’s words 
gave me, when, in answer to your question re- 
garding the original, he replied that ‘ it was the 
lady he expected to marry. ’ I had telegraphed 
her as soon as I left the steamer, that I was on 
my way to her, that we should meet on the fol- 
lowing day. Of course I did not go. I did not 
even write to reproach her. It was all over be- 
tween us. What could I suppose, but that she 
wss going to marry your friend ? ’ ’ 

4 c My friend be hanged for a conceited donkey ! 
But it has been a serious matter to him. It 
seems incredible that a man of his sense should 
have gone heels over head in love with an ideal. 
But he’s an honorable fellow, Talbot; and if this 
affair takes down his self-conceit a peg or two, it 
will be the best thing that ever happened to 
him. This is how it all came out, and if I men- 
tion the name of a lady you have heard me speak 


ADA’S TRUST. 


[96 

of before, I confide it to your honor as a gentle- 
man — for with all her faults she’s a brave, noble 
creature. ’ ’ Then Thornton imparted to his friend 
all that had passed that morning between Daisy 
Garnet and Mr. Mercer. 

When having heard the true, connected his- 
tory of the affair, Talbot saw that appearances 
only had misled and made him lose faith in Ada 
Moore, he forgot all he had suffered in bitter 
self-condemnation, and felt convinced that she 
could never forgive him for what must have 
seemed to her, under the circumstances, the most 
insulting neglect. 

Thornton guessed from his compressed lips, 
and the paleness that had overspread his coun- 
tenance, how keenly his sensitive soul was suffer- 
ing; but taking no notice, he continued: “Then, 
to make sure about the way the photograph was 
obtained, and by whom — for Miss Garnet would 
not name her confrere , the gentleman who got 
it, and who was really the prime mover in the 
affair, she assisting from a pure love of fun and 
mischief — we determined to go to the artist’s 
gallery, his address being on the back of the pic- 
ture, and investigate further. We found the 
place without difficulty. The artist was in, and, 
for the moment, disengaged. We saw an honest- 
faced man, with a shrewd outlook in his eyes 
which meant business.. We named our reason 
for calling, and Mercer showed him the photo- 
graph, saying he “supposed that he still had the 


ADA’S TRUST. 


197 

negative, as it had not been quite a year since it 
was taken.” 

u 4 This was not taken by me, sir,’ he said, 
looking at the back, and pointing to the name 
of Fowler. ‘My name is Brown. I bought 
Mr. Fowler out about six months ago, with 
quite a number of his plates, and a collection 
of fancy pictures. I remember this photo 
perfectly; it struck me as being so beautiful, 
that I wished to make some copies for my 
collection, and not only looked over all the 
old plates, but rummaged in every hole and 
corner for the negative, without success. I 
suppose the sitter either bought it, or had it 
destroyed, as they sometimes do. Then I placed 
it with three or four choice fancy photos that I 
meant to take copies from; but the very day I 
had arranged matters to do so, I found that the 
one I especially wanted was gone. My assistant 
had sold it late the evening before, to a young 
gentleman who came in in a great hurry to buy 
a photo of some pretty girl or other to send off 
in a letter by that night's mail, and for no good, 
I fancy. That this is the same picture, I could 
swear by a little blur on the left hand, as if the 
sitter had involuntarily moved it, and by a slight 
finger-mark just here 011 the side — you see it, 
gentlemen — all the rest being perfect.’ We 
thanked Mr. Brown, and left him, without a 
doubt as to the accuracy of his statement. And 
here is the picture, Talbot. I told Mercer all 


l()S ADA’S SECRET. 

that I suspected, which you have frankly con- 
firmed. He took the late afternoon train for New 
York, leaving orders for his baggage to be sent 
after him. He said that yon had the best right 
to the photograph, and put it into my hand to 
give you, with this message: ‘Tell him,’ he 
said, ‘ I regret more than I can express the mis- 
chief and pain I have been the unintentional 
cause of; and if it will be any satisfaction to him 
to know it, say that I am a bitterly disappointed 
man.’ But I must say, in justice to him, Tal- 
bot, that notwithstanding his having made such 
an ass of himself, I am convinced that he would 
have cut off his right hand rather than pen that 
advertisement, if he had had the remotest idea 
of its outcome. He’s an honorable fellow at the 
core. ’ ’ 

“It’s the old story of ‘what is fun to one, is 
death to another.’ The injury to my happiness 
was involuntary, and unintentional on his part, 
and really leaves me nothing to forgive,” said 
Talbot, regarding the picture with softened re- 
gard; “but I fear that she thinks I have forfeited 
all right to hers. I have the duplicate of this in 
my pocket-book; I could not bear to destroy, ot 
part with the shadow of my too great happiness, 
injured as I felt myself to be.” 

“Come, old fellow! it’s not sentiment you 
want now, but grit. Go and find her; tell her 
how you were befooled; and if she’s a sensible 
girl, and has ever had the right sort of faith in 


ADA’S TRUST. 


199 


you, she’ll see at once that there was nothing 
left for you to do, except just exactly what. you 
did. But I forgot that you are to start off pres- 
ently to New York,” said Thornton, springing 
up, and turning on the gas. “Come! I’ll just 
light a cigar, and help you pack.” 

U I shall not go to New York — yet awhile, 
Thornton,” he answered, in quiet tones; u thank 
you, though, all the same. I’ll telegraph to my 
business agent in New York, as I go down-town, 
not to expect me. I’ll get my traps together 
when I come in. For what you have done for 
me, I can never find words to thank you,” he 
added, grasping his friend’s hand. 

U A11 right. You’ll find me here when you 
come back. I’m awfully tired, so I’ll stand 
guard until you return,” said Thornton, gather- 
ing up the New York papers, and making him- 
self comfortable on a lounge, with his cigar-case 
within reach. There was a twinkle of fun in 
Thornton’s eyes, and as Talbot closed the door 
after him, he said to himself, half laughing: 
“The gods be thanked! I’ve never been what’s 
called in love; I can’t see the fun of it, for the 
life of me.” Then he lost himself in the news 
from Wall Street, while he shrouded himself in 
the fragrant incense dispensed by his cigar. 

Maurice Talbot’s mind was in such a strange 
tumult of hope and uncertainty and self-reproach, 
after all he had heard, that he felt the necessity 
of seeking tranquillity in that refuge which had 


200 


\da’s trust. 


never yet failed him, where dwelt the Adorable 
Presence of Him who spoke to the stormy sea 
and it was still, and who awaits ever, with sweet, 
patient power, to calm the troubled hearts of 
His suffering ones. On his way to the Cathe- 
dral, the only ray of light that penetrated the 
cloud yet lowering over him, was the certainty 
that he had not been mistaken in the girl he 
loved — that she had not been false to him. But 
now, what had he to hope for? She must know 
the truth, and from his own lips, whatever might 
come of it. His dreams might never be real- 
ized, but it would comfort him to the end of his 
life to know that she was innocent of all falsity 
and trifling. He went into the quiet, dim 
church, and in the shadow of one of the great 
gray pillars he knelt, and, bowing his head, 
earnestly implored the guidance of the sweet 
Mother of Mercy, to whom he offered his inten- 
tion. Then, feeling the need of human help, 
and of good, dispassionate counsel in this diffi- 
cult strait, it suddenly presented itself to his 
mind to call upon the Archbishop and confide 
everything to him. He was aware that his 
Grace was a relative of Mrs. Ogden and Ada, 
and thought nothing more reasonable than that 
he should have heard something of the affair, a 
fact which would make his task less embarras- 
sing. The result was that his Grace, without 
informing him of Ada’s having confided her 
trial to him for the purpose of receiving counsel, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


201 


exonerated him from blame, and advised him, 
by all means, to see her at as early a day as pos- 
sible, and explain the facts of the case, telling 
him where Mrs. Ogden and herself were, and 
the route he should take to find them. 

Asking the amiable prelate’s blessing, Mau- 
rice Talbot thanked him for his kindness, shook 
hands, and lost no time in getting back to the 
Beltzhoffer House. At ten o’clock he took the 
boat for Old Point Comfort. The next morn- 
ing only a lady, closely veiled, and himself 
landed. The u Hygeia Hotel” was open for the 
season, and there was no great difficulty in pro- 
curing a conveyance from the Point to Darrall 
House — one of those primitive vehicles greatly 
in use at that period, known as a u stick gig. ’ ’ 
The veiled lady was furnished with another, a 
young darkey at her feet to drive, and to Tal- 
bot’s surprise, he discovered that she followed 
in his track, and, later, it was quite evident that 
she too was bound for the old gray house at the 
Cape. 


202 


ADA’S TRUST. 


CONCLUDING CHAPTER. 

A SURPRISE. — A BURNT-OFFERING. — PEACE. 

Mr. Darraix, whose health was steadily im- 
proving, one day declared his intention of being 
wheeled out on the lawn to his favorite spot, 
which was shaded by an enormous beech-tree, 
and where the grass, sown twenty years before, 
and regularly shaven, was like velvet, the moist 
atmosphere preserving the vividness of its green. 
Mrs. Ogden, who thought the change would go 
far towards breaking up his indisposition to 
move, did not give him time to alter his mind; 
and by a little vigorous but quiet action every- 
thing was made ready, and he was wheeled out 
gently by his man-servant without the slightest 
jar or discomfort, followed by herself and the 
two girls, wdio brought him flowers, and golden 
apricots which they spread temptingly on the 
rustic table beside him. He felt the change 
from the house to the open air a delicious one, 
and encouraged Judith and Ada to talk, and flit 
around him, until Mrs. Ogden feared, taking all 
things together, that the unusual fatigue and ex- 
citement might prove hurtful, and made a sign 
to them to leave, which they did gracefully and 
without abruptness. They then went to the 


ADA’S TRUST. 203 

house for their hats and shawls, and strolled 
away to the beach. 

Quietly seated near her brother, Mis. Ogden 
w r as ready to read aloud or converse with him, 
as he might desire. He preferred the latter, 
and, resting against his arm-cushions, gave him- 
self up to a sense of repose and enjoyment to 
which he had long been a stranger, while he 
breathed in the delicious bouquet of the sea, as 
if quaffing a new elixir of life. Here we will 
leave them, and not wait for the arrival of the 
unexpected guests who were travelling slowly 
through the heavy sand towards u Darr all House, ” 
but follow Ada and her cousin to their accus- 
tomed haunt under the sand-dune. 

The weather was perfect; there was a light 
breeze, just enough to cap the billows with a 
white fringe as they rolled in landward to break 
in long lines of dazzling foam upon the shingly 
beach. A broad rim of pale green light lay 
along the marge of the horizon, against which 
the ocean, glistening and weltering, seemed to 
beat itself, heedless of the white-sailed ships 
gliding out of sight beyond the barriers it sought 
to pass. Above, in strong contrast, hung long 
lines of dark, slate-colored clouds, lowering and 
motionless, as if reserving their force for the 
coming of the u prince of the powers of the air” 
to speed away in wild tempests to wreck and 
destroy whatever might appear in their path; 
while over all, reaching almost to the zenith, 


204 


ADA’S TRUST. 


and floating against the blue, lighter clouds, 
tinted from the westering sun with hues of pale 
violet and delicate rose-color, enriched the scene. 
The low, mellow booming of the surf, the wild, 
sharp cry of a curlew now and then rising 
abo~ o it, the flight of white-winged gulls, and 
the swift flocks of sand-pipers that skurried past, 
some of them on the wing, some in a wild run 
on the beach, tranquillized the mind and amused 
the fancy. 

After having taken a long stroll as far as the 
wreck, the two girls retraced their steps, and 
having reached their usual resting-place, they 
spread their shawls over the great sand-pillows 
which they had one day amused themselves 
by heaping up, covering them with the dried 
sea- weed and grasses cast up by the tides, and 
threw themselves down to rest and enjoy the 
beauty and grandeur of sea, and sky, and shore. 
They were both tired, and neither of them in a 
talkative mood. Judith Darrall had her dark 
hours at times, which even the happier condi- 
tions of her present life failed to banish: nothing 
could eradicate from her mind that dread of in- 
sanity which Mrs. Willis had so wickedly im- 
pressed upon it; but as she was reticent to a de- 
gree that forbade any reference to the subject, 
neither Mrs. Ogden nor Ada, although suspecting 
the cause, thought it wise to question her sad 
silences. On several occasions when they were 
quite alone, Mrs. Ogden had endeavored to lead 


ADA'S TRUST. 


205 


her thoughts to a consideration of religion as 
taught by the Church, knowing that only in its 
safe fold could her troubled soul find rest. She 
hoped that the open and sincere return of her 
brother to the practice of his faith would have 
good influence upon Judith; but she seemed im- 
penetrable. She would listen to all Mrs. Ogden 
said, her dark, wonderfully-beautiful eyes looking 
into hers, her countenance impassive, her long 
hands folded listlessly together, her head thrown 
slightly back, uttering no word, asking no ques- 
tion, showing 110 interest — a living symbol of the 
rebellious people from whom she sprung. “We 
must be patient,” said Mrs. Ogden one night to 
Ada, when they were alone, u and never cease 
praying for her conversion. She knows nothing 
really about the Jewish religion. The knowledge 
she has picked up from books is simply made up 
of Rabbinical legends and Hebrew traditions and 
a superficial reading of Josephus, which have 
filled her mind and imagination with almost 
sublime ideas of the valor and glories of God’s 
ancient people, from the most heroic of whom 
she is descended. Her soul is like fallow ground, 
waiting for the good seed which by God’s grace 
will in time fall there. It is only a knowledge 
of the Divine Truth, and the consolations it im- 
parts, that can save her from that which she so 
secretly dreads. ’ ’ 

The two girls sat together on the sands, each 
occupied with her own thoughts. Ada, her eyes 


206 


ADA’S TRUST. 


gazing out towards the broad rim of light tha f 
spanned the horizon, her chaplet in hand, was 
seeking in that beautiful devotion relief from her 
own memories, which more than usually troubled 
her, and tempted her to despondency that day. 
The shadow of her cross was always brightened 
in the celestial light shed upon it by the won- 
drous mysteries of the lives of the sinless Virgin 
and her Divine Son; and now, as she dropped 
bead after bead with the prayers her heart whis- 
pered, she offered her intention with the same 
humility and unquestioned faith that she would 
have felt had they been upon earth, and she re- 
posing at their feet. 

Judith, who had been regarding her cousin in- 
tently, abruptly interrupted her with — 

“Ada, does that really help you?” 

Ada started: her cousin’s voice had a sharp 
ring in it, which awoke her to the reality of her 
surroundings, and looking into her face she saw 
there an expression so earnestly questioning, 
withal so sad, that, taken by surprise, she only 
said: 

“Do you mean this devotion?” and held up 
her pearl chaplet, on which the light softly glis- 
tened. 

“Yes. I do not understand it,” she answered, 
looking far over the sea; “but I have often no- 
ticed you, and wondered what was in it, and if 
it would comfort me as it does you, if I could 
believe in such things.” 


ADA'S TRUST. 


207 


4 ‘May I tell you about it? Oh, Judith, dar- 
ling, let me! for the story my chaplet tells is the 
wonderful one of our Redemption,” said Ada, 
her face flushed with hope and her eyes luminous 
with a divine desire to enlighten this desolate 
soul, who was still in the shadow of darkness. 

“It would be useless, Ada; the ‘leopard can- 
not change his spots,’ nor I my heritage of blood 
and instincts. And what would it matter, after 
all, even if I could?” 

“Oh, Judith! I would giye the world — yes! 
I would give my very life — if I could only make 
plain to you, so that you could no longer blind 
yourself to the Truth, how eternally it does 
matter for you to understand!” exclaimed Ada. 

Judith was silent for a little while. Her eyes 
looked as Miriam’s might have done when, es- 
caped out of Egypt, she saw the hosts of Pharaoh 
drowned in the sea, and sang her canticle of 
triumph! She said: 

“When the Messiah comes He will restore the 
glory of Israel. Our people, now scattered and 
outcast by the nations, will be no longer like a 
desolate bride asking the watchmen upon the 
walls: ‘Where is my spouse?’ for He will gather 
them in, and crown them with the splendor of 
His triumphs!” Her head was thrown back, 
her face aglow with the grandeur of the thought. 

u He has already come ,” said Ada, in impres- 
sive tones. 

“ Not He for whom my people wait. My an- 


208 


ADA’S TRUST. 


cestors, Judas Machabeus, David, and Solomon, 
were the prototypes of the Messias who is to 
come and make Israel the sovereign of the 
world. The prophets, through all the ages, have 
foretold the glory of His triumphs. The last of 
them declared that a great prophet would arise 
before His advent and announce His appearance!’ ’ 
u That prophet also came — John the Baptist — 
and declared that the ‘Word was made flesh,’ 
and dwelt among men; and did he not announce 
that He was the Lamb of God who came to take 
away the sins of the world? — and when he bap- 
tized Him in the Jordan, did not a voice from 
Heaven declare, “This is my beloved Son, in 
whom I am well pleased? ’ ” 

“John the Baptist was a wild enthusiast, who 
spent his life in the wilderness clothed in skins, 
and living on locusts and wild honey, like any 
other savage — poor, ignorant, and, the Rabbis 
said, half-crazed! Do great conquerors and 
supreme sovereigns send such messengers as he, 
to announce their approach? No! I say no.” 
“Temporal sovereigns and great conquerors 
like the Alexanders, the Ptolemys, the Caesars, 
did not; but He who came and was rejected, who 
was crucified, giving His life for the salvation 
of the world, was the true Messiah, who 
founded and established upon earth an inde- 
structible kingdom, whose glories and triumphs 
no earthly conquerors, or mighty potentates, 
01 time, or the powers of hell, have been able to 


ADA’S TRUST. 


209 


diminish or destroy. The world is strewn with 
the ruins of fallen nations; but this kingdom 
founded by Jesus Christ remains firm, its youth 
and glory ever renewed by His Spirit, and 
His presence ever dwelling upon the altars 
where He is adored. Oh, Judith! I wish I had 
the gift of words to tell you all that is in my 
heart, even with the simple knowledge I have 
of such things, that you might see and believe 
that the Messiah, the fulfiller of all prophecy, 
Jesus Christ, has indeed come, and invites you 
into His Fold, to share with Him the final glory 
of His kingdom. ’ ’ 

U I believe nothing, really, Ada, except his- 
tory, and Jesus the Nazarene is not the Messias 
foretold by our prophets and still expected — the 
Desired of Nations — by my people.” 

u No! no! They expected and still wait for 
an earthly heroic ideal, conjured up by their 
national pride, their love of conquest and glory, 
and their soaring dreams of ambition and sove- 
reign power. No wonder they denied Him, who, 
born in poverty, preached humility, forgiveness 
and penance to them. They counted His teach- 
ings sedition, His miracles as nothing, His 
resurrection from the dead a pretence! Oh, 
Judith! do not harden your heart against Him.” 
u Have you ever read of Queen Esther, the 
Jewess who, arrayed in her royalest garments, 
crowned, and sparkling with jewels, went un- 
bidden and at the peril of her life before the 


210 


ADA’S TRUST. 


throne of her husband, King Assuerus, and won 
from him the favor by which her countrymen 
were saved from the exterminating swore ot 
Aman? It is some such thing, heroic and glori- 
ous, that I should like to do, and then die!” said 
Judith, as she rose from the sands and stood 
queenly in her dark beauty, her uplifted face ra- 
diant in the amber light that glorified the air. 

Ada sighed as she looked with admiration on 
her statuesque form and enthused countenance, 
in which shone the spirit of Miriam, of Judith 
the slayer of the oppressor of her people, of 
Esther — and thought of that later Mary to whom 
the Archangel bore the wondrous message from 
the Most High, “such as before had ne’er to 
earth descended,” to whom she breathed a fer- 
vent u Ave” for her cousin’s conversion. She 
felt hope in the fact that there was in Judith 
Darrall no deep-rooted religious faith in the be- 
lief of her people, but rather an exultation in 
their past glories and future restoration. 

“We have short twilights here, you know, 
Ada; had we not better start home?” said 
Judith, holding out her hand to help Ada to 
rise; then, as they stood together, she put her 
arm around her, pressed her to her breast and 
kissed her tenderly — the first caress she had ever 
given her. It was so entirely spontaneous that 
Ada accepted it as a gage that, at some future 
time, she might, without offence, renew the con- 
versation that had just passed between them — not 


ADA’S TRUST. 


2 - 1 


that she felt capable of removing her prejudices; 
she only hoped with God’s help to weaken them 
by loving persistence, and bring her, with her 
own consent, tinder the influence of some one 
better qualified to teach her than she was. 

“Who can that be?” said Judith, pausing a 
moment to observe a lady who had just emerged 
from the opening between the sand-dunes, and 
was advancing towards them — a tall, lithe fig- 
ure, in a dark gown, a red scarf twisted around 
her neck, the ends flying, and a brown barege 
veil over her face. 

Ada Moore held her breath for an instant; the 
form, the air, the graceful, undulating walk, 
were familiar; but thinking how impossible that 
it could be she of whom they reminded her, she 
walked on in silence. 

“Whoever she may be, she intends to meet 
us; let us walk faster, Ada.” And the two girls 
quickened their steps along the beach, which the 
ebb-tide always Jeft hard and firm. In a little 
while they were within a few paces of the ad- 
vancing stranger, who, with a light, merry 
laugh, threw back her veil, and in another mo- 
ment Ada was in Daisy Garnet’s arms. 

4 1 Where did you come from ? ’ ’ 

“Out of the sand-hills!” were the first words 
that passed between them. Then Ada intro- 
duced her to her cousin, who gave the unex- 
pected visitor shy welcome in a few cordial 
words. 


212 


ADA’S TRUS'i . 


“You are not going away yet, I hope, from 
all this superb roar and white flashing of the 
surf? Do stay a little longer!” said Daisy Gar- 
net, adding in an undertone, “I must see you 
alone, Ada, and this is the best place for what I 
have to say.” 

Judith was a few steps in advance of them, 
and, supposing the two friends would like to be 
alone just at first, excused herself on the plea of 
having something to prepare for her father, 
which was true, and left them. 

“Is that the Oueen of Sheba?” said Daisy, 
looking after her with admiring eyes; “I never 
saw so stately a beauty. ’ ’ 

“ My cousin is of Hebrew extraction, and is a 
perfect type of the womanhood of her race. But 
I haven’t told you yet how glad I am to see 
you,” said Ada. 

“It is good for me to be here, Ada; it gives 
me courage. I never saw the ocean before, and 
I almost feel that a few steps further will bring 
me face to face with God! ” said the girl in 
quiet tones, as she looked away over the white- 
capped, hurrying waves, upon which the gray 
shadows of coming night were already falling. 

“It is good for me to have you,” said Ada, 
touched by her manner and words. “ But I can 
never imagine a lack of courage m you; it seems 
out of keeping to think of such a thing! ” 

“You’ll see presently. Let us sit down on 
one of these little sand-hillocks. What I have 


ADA’S TROST. 


213 


to do must be done at once, or left undone. 
Ada, I have come to make a confession. With- 
out intending or knowing it, I have done you a 
great wrong, and have come to make repara- 
tion.” 

Ada was surprised into silence, and waited. 

4 4 But I will not say another word until you 
promise in advance to forgive me; for no other 
motive influences me to humiliate myself except 
that of my deep affection for you — and, yes, I 
may add, a sense of honor.” 

44 1 can promise you my forgiveness, Daisy. 
I do not think you would have wronged me 
knowingly; but forgiveness is due, however it 
may be.” 

44 Your religion teaches unconditional forgive- 
ness of injuries, I know; but I want something 
more human — mv offence must be condoned and 

m/ 

forgotten; I will have nothing less,” she an- 
swered, impetuously. 

4 4 Dear friend, what in the world have you 
done, that you should make it a matter of such 
importance! I declare you are quite tragic. 
Can’t you trust me?” 

4 4 Yes: and don’t let me outdo you in generos- 
ity, for I have sacrificed a great deal in undoing 
the consequences of my folly; but your forgive- 
ness will make amends for everything.” 

4 4 It is yours unconditionally. Now let me 
know the trouble,” said Ada, leaning her folded 
arms upon her knees, and looking up into Daisy 
Garnet’s face. 


214 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Then, as the gray shadows deepened around 
them, and the sad, solemn sound of the ocean 
filled the air, Daisy Garnet told her all, not spar- 
ing herself. Before leaving the city that day, 
Douglass Mercer had sent her a few polite, cold 
lines, telling her that he had sent the photo- 
graph, which had made so much trouble, to the 
gentleman — Mr. Maurice Talbot — who had the 
best and only right to it, by Mr. Thornton, a 
mutual friend of his own and Mr. Talbot’s. 
“Then,” continued the high-spirited girl, “I 
determined that you should hear everything 
from my own lips, and got my father’s consent 
to pay you a flying visit at Old Point. He 
thought you were there, and I did not undeceive 
him. Oh, Ada, how little did I think that you 
were the one who was to be hurt by my foolish 
escapade , and I telling you of it so blindly from 
time" to time! ” 

The color had faded out of Ada Moore’s face. 
She scarcely gave a thought to the miserable 
joke which had brought her such bitter pain; 
but wondered with a dull ache in her heart how 
Maurice Talbot could ever have thought her so 
false as to imagine she would engage herself to 
another man when she was tacitly pledged to 
him. 

u Now, Ada, that I have made a clean breast 
of it, have you no word for me? ” 

“ I feel bewildered — a little — but I am glad to 
know the truth, because it explains much that I 
could not understand,” she answered. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


215 


“I have more yet to tell you, that you may 
know my folly has not gone ‘unwhipped by 
fate,’ ” continued Daisy, with a light laugh, and 
something of the old, defiant ring in her voice. 
“Knowing what a fruitless quest Douglass Mer- 
cer’s would be for his ideal, what do you suppose 
happened? This: with the perversity of my na- 
ture, I began to care for him. He is the first 
man I ever had the least sentiment for — yes ! and, 
in time, I should have won him; but as soon as 
I saw the photograph which he showed me, I 
recognized you at a glance, and knew at once 
the mischief that had been done. I did not stop 
to think, but told him that / was the author of 
the correspondence that had so deceived him, 
that you were my friend, and all the rest. In 
doing so, I was perfectly sure that I gave the 
death-blow to my own hopes, besides having 
only the contempt of the man whose love I ex- 
pected to win. That is all.” 

“Dear Daisy, the lines were hard for you. I 
am sorry from my heart.” 

“Don’t pity me, if you please. I could bear 
your anger better,” said the proud girl. “All 
will be right now between you and Maurice Tal- 
bot, I hope.” 

“I don’t know; I think he should have come 
at once to me: much feeling had been spared if 
he had,” she replied. 

“He has come now, Ada; at this moment he 
is at the house with Mrs. Ogden and your uncle. 


216 


ADA'S TRUST. 


I never saw him in my life until to-day. We 
came from Baltimore on the same boat; we 
reached here within a few minutes of each other: 
but until I heard his name, when Mrs. Ogden 
introduced him to Mr. Darrall, I had not the 
remotest idea who he was. Don’t be hard on 
him, Ada: he was not to blame. He heard Mr. 
Mercer tell Thornton that the photograph was 
‘that of the lady he expected to marry.’ Just 
consider what a douche that was for him, just 
landed, and hoping to be with you in a few 
hours! ” 

‘ ‘ He should have known me better. I know 
I shall have to see him — but not to-night. I 
must think a little.” 

‘ ‘ And consult your Rosary, and invoke all the 
‘charms’ hanging on it.” 

“Yes: what could I do better? — not as you 
put it, but as I, by faith, understand it. I shall 
not be led astray by such an oracle, I assure 
you,” she replied, in gentle but firm tones. 
“Let us go back to the house; we will enter by 
the side-door, and I will slip up-stairs. Tell 
my aunt to excuse my absence to them all; for I 
cannot, cannot meet Maiirice Talbot to-night! ” 

But the human will is in many instances a 
blind factor, and Ada Moore saw Maurice Tal- 
bot that very night, under circumstances she lit- 
tle dreamed of. Having reached her room with- 
out meeting any of the servants, her heart wildly 
throbbing with mingled emotions — joy, anger, 


ADA’S TRUST. 


217 


pity — not able yet to define how much blame 
Maurice Talbot deserved, and feeling yet the 
sting of his apparent want of trust in her, very 
tired withal, she lay down on the lounge at the 
foot of her bed to think it all over; then, finding 
herself still tossed by doubts as to her future 
action, she drew out her chaplet and sought the 
assistance of that tender Virgin-Mother who had 
never turned her empty away. Her agitated 
feelings grew more calm; the darkness and quiet 
of the room, and the distant mellow rhythm of 
the surf beating against the shore soothed her 
nerves, and sleep stole over her senses. And so 
Mrs. Ogden found her, when she came up for the 
night, breathing softly, a delicate rose-tint. on her 
cheeks, a half-smile on her lips, her chaplet 
around the hand which had fallen with careless 
grace at her side. She would not awaken her 
yet. The morrow would be time enough to talk 
over and decide how matters were to be settled. 

After every one had retired, Maurice Talbot 
found his way to the beach. He felt no disposi- 
tion to sleep, indeed no desire; he had too much 
to think over; for although Mrs. Ogden accepted 
his explanation as sincerely as it was given, she 
would promise nothing for Ada, about whom 
she was very reticent; and he was altogether un- 
certain whether his forgiveness would be as 
complete as he hoped for. Her having declined 
to meet him that evening did not promise a 
yen happy termination of their estrangement. 


2l8 


ADA’S TRUST. 


The silent infinity above him, glorious with 
stars; the restless infinity stretching out before 
him, reflecting their radiant points, as if the 
waves were strewn with those floating lamps by 
which the Hindoo maidens try their fate; the 
sad, tireless roar of the gleaming surf echoing 
far away into the distance, made his own happi- 
ness shrink for the moment to nothingness by 
contrast, and himself into an atom; while an all- 
pervading sense of the power and majesty of God 
filled his being, and made him more conscious 
than he ever was before of his utter and absolute 
dependence upon Him. It is at such moments 
that the soul asserts its divine origin, as, crying 
out from the depths, it offers life, being, and 
earthly hopes to the disposal of God’s holy will. 

Maurice Talbot did not formulate what was 
passing in his mind, as I have done; it was all 
too deep, too spontaneous, for expression ; but the 
result was, that he determined to accept renewed 
disappointment, and the loss of his dearest 
earthly hope, should such be in the near future 
for him, with submission to the divine will. He 
walked a long distance, and it was after midnight 
when he turned to retrace his steps. As he ap- 
proached the sand-dunes, through which the 
road from Darrall House to the beach opened, he 
observed a singular glare in the sky; but sup- 
posing it was the moon rising, he gave it no at- 
tention. Had he done so, he would have no- 
ticed that the numerous clouds which hud gatli- 


ADA’S TRUST. 


219 


ered over the heavens were not edged with silver; 
but were tinged, and glowing with red. He lit 
a cigar, and, walking slowly, half unwilling to 
turn his back on the ocean, he reached the open 
road between the dunes, and as he entered it, the 
glare that he had noticed reflected in the clouds 
burst upon him. 

Darrall House was in flames! 

The negroes, a hundred or more, were doing 
all that minds unaccustomed to great emergen- 
cies, or independent action, could do; that is, 
they were shouting at the top of their lungs, 
upsetting each other in their vain efforts to do 
impossible things; as impotent to extinguish the 
flames roaring before them as was the ocean that 
was roaring behind them, a few hundred feet 
away. The leather fire-buckets, which every 
householder supplied himself with in those days, 
had never been used, and were at that moment 
being shrivelled into formless ruin by the fierce, 
fiery heat of the flames, already penetrating the 
lumber-room where they had been stowed away 
for safe-keeping for twenty years or more. There 
were no ladders: there seemed to be nothing at 
hand by which the fiery destruction could be 
stayed. The undisciplined negroes, without a 
leader, had, however, got a great deal out of the 
house before the heat and smoke drove them off. 
Beds, mattresses, and bedclothes; broken furni- 
ture, crockery, glass, mirrors, also broken in 
hopeless fragments — carpets, and pictures, lay 


220 


ADA’S TRUST. 


scattered around in promiscuous heaps, just 
where they had been pitched out of windows, or 
dragged through the doors with desperate force. 

Maurice Talbot ran towards a portion of the 
old rambling house where the negroes had sud- 
denly collected, all talking confusedly, and ges- 
ticulating and yelling like madmen. He could 
see that the flames were rapidly spreading within ; 
and, as he got near enough, he saw, to his hor- 
ror, a female figure in white standing, or rather 
leaning, against the frame of a window; a few 
steps further he got full view of her face, and 
saw that it was Ada Moore. She was in her 
night-robe, her face blanched to the whiteness 
of death. The sight of any woman in such peril 
would have stirred all the chivalrous humanity 
of his nature to the most active efforts to save 
her, but now! — Ada! exposed to the danger of a 
death like this! Life of his life, his own first, 
true, pure love! If he could not save her, then 
he would die in the attempt. That is what in 
an instant flashed through his mind. 

“Ladders!” he shouted; “bring ladders, men! 
Don’t lose a moment!” 

“Ain’t got nary a one, Mars’,” was the an- 
swer roared from a dozen throats. 

“Pile up the beds, my good fellows, under 
that window; bring them along, mattresses and 
all. Now take hold of that big one there on 
top, as many of you as can find room for your 
hands, and hold it up over your heads if you 


can. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


221 


They caught his meaning, and lost not a 
moment in fulfilling his instructions, which 
rang out like clarion-notes, loud and distinct. 

“Now, Ada, you must! — jump there’s no dan- 
ger; jump, for God’s sake! You will die if you 
hesitate: the fire is running along the passage 
towards your room,” Maurice Talbot entreated. 

“ I would — oh, I would! I am not afraid to 
jump — but Mrs. Willis is here on the floor in a 
dead faint, ’ ’ she answered ; “ I cannot leave her. ’ ’ 

“ But you must! My God! what is to be done? 
Boys, can’t some of you find poles long enough 
to reach that window?” he shouted, nearly des- 
perate. 

“Yes, Mars’!” yelled a dozen voices, in glad 
chorus; “we got some mastses jest hauled to- 
day. ’ ’ 

“Go and bring them! A thousand dollars 
will reward you if in time to save that lady!” 

With a wild hurrah, the negroes, fifty or more 
of them, dashed off with all speed. That thou- 
sand dollars! — they were sure of it if they got 
back in time; for those yellow pine-masts, forty 
feet long and untrimmed, which they had been 
cutting and hauling for a week to go to a ship- 
builder at Norfolk, would almost reach to the 
eaves of the roof. A thousand dollars! They 
would try their best to save the young lady who 
always spoke so kindly to them, without reward; 
but this additional incentive gave wings to their 
heels. 


222 


ADA’S TRUST. 


There was no time to be lost. Smoke was 
pouring into the room, and Maurice Talbot 
could see here and there, through its dense folds, 
a jet of flame. u Ada, my darling! can you rouse 
that woman? Have you strength enough to 
drag her to the window and push her out upon 
those beds?” he cried, half-beside himself. 

“I’ll try,” she said. But she could not move 
Mrs. Willis; and, seeing how hopeless it was, she 
came back to the window gasping for breath, 
and wondering if she might leave her there to be 
burnt to death, when deliverance awaited her so 
near. Life seemed very sweet to the girl in that 
supreme moment. 

“Let her burn up, little Missis; her life ain’t 
worth nothin’ nohow. You jest drop you’sef 
down upon this ere mattress: we’ll hold him 
tight, please God. Now, boys, h’ist him up!” 
cried one of the men. The mattress was hoisted 
by forty brawny arms, as high as their heads, 
which helped to support it. But Ada did not 
move. Talbot saw that she had her Chaplet in 
her hands, and knew that she was breathing 
forth the Angelic Salutation, for ‘ ‘ now ’ ’ and 
“at the hour of death.” His own heart had not 
failed, every moment or two, to offer an Ave for 
help, scaling the very heavens with the fervor 
and force of his intention. “It will be too 
late!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands; “will 
they never come?” The moments had seemed 
like hours since the men started. But they were 


ADA’S TRUST. 


223 


coining at last; he heard their wild recitative 
and chorus as they drew near. The rough masts 
— two of them — trunks of stately pine-trees that 
had stood, like columns of cedar in Solomon’s 
Temple, in the forest yesterday, were brought to 
the rescue. A few minutes later, and it would 
have been too late. Strong, willing hands set 
them in place, and they not only reached the 
window, but projected into the room — the tall, 
stately, blessed pines! No sooner placed, than, 
with the agility of an acrobat, Maurice Talbot 
scaled them, followed by a strong, long-limbed 
young fellow he had ordered to follow him. 

“Now, Ada,” he exclaimed, clasping her in 
his arms, ‘ ‘ you are saved ! ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Willis first; she is unconscious.” 
Almost frenzied at the delay, for the flames 
were upon them, near enough to scorch and 
burn, he bade the young negro help him; and 
between them, they lifted Mrs. Willis’s tall, an- 
gular, limp form, and dropped her on the mat- 
tress, which was still upheld by the hands and 
heads of the patient men; and except that her 
weight gave their necks an unexpected wrench, 
no harm was done, although their disgust may 
be imagined, when they saw that they had saved 
their detested old oppressor instead of the “pretty 
buckra lady their young Missis loved.” 

As soon as Mrs. Willis was in safety, Maurice 
Talbot folded Ada in one arm, and by help of 
the other made his way down the bark-covered 


224 


ADA’S TRUST. 


masts, reaching the ground in safety with his 
precious burden, while the negroes cheered with 
such yells that any passing ship, miles out, might 
have heard them. Maurice’s coat was burnt 
across the shoulders; his hair, his left cheek, and 
his hands were blistered, the latter in crushing 
out the fire, which had not only caught Ada’s 
night-robe, but was beginning to blaze. When 
Maurice Talbot bore her away some little dis- 
tance from the burning house, he thought she 
hung very helpless and limp in his arms; he 
looked down into her face, and saw that she had 
fainted. No wonder she had given him no word 
in answer to his expressions of joy and endear- 
ment. His first impulse was to take her to Mrs. 
Ogden; but some directions must be given about 
Mrs. Willis, who lay still unconscious where she 
had dropped. He knew that Ada would have 
ministered to her comfort, and felt it was what 
she would have desired him to do; so he called 
to some of the men to lift the mattress out of 
harm’s way. and send one or two of the women 
to take care of the sufferer. u You won the re- 
ward I promised you bravely, my friends. You 
shall not wait for it. Take good care of Mrs. 
Willis. This lady has fainted too, and I must 
find her aunt.” 

Then, bearing the unconscious girl in his arms, 
he made his way by a wide circuit around the 
burning house towards the lawn, thinking it 
more than likely he would find her friends there. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


22* 


Up to that moment, there had been no time to 
think of anything except the peril in which he 
had found Ada, and how to rescue her. Every 
object was gilded and burnished in the glare of 
the flames: it was like a red sunset, with light- 
ning flashing through it, revealing even the 
smallest flowers, and casting weird, dancing 
shadows over the smooth lawn. And there, 
away off under the old beech-tree, where he had 
met Mr. Darrall and Mrs. Ogden when he ar- 
rived, only a few hours ago, he saw them to- 
gether, a strangely, silent group — Mr. Darrall, 
leaning back against the pillows of his wheeled 
chair, the central object. A deep sigh from Ada, 
and a half-frightened whisper of “Where am 
I? ” arrested Maurice Talbot’s steps; she looked 
into the face leaning tenderly over hers; she re- 
membered all, all, and a crimson glow suffused 
her countenance. Obeying a maidenly instinct, 
she said, releasing herself from his arms, ‘ ‘ I am 
quite recovered, and will walk, if you please; — 
but where is Mrs. Willis? — and the others — where 
are they all, Mr. Talbot?” 

“Mrs. Willis is safe, and your friends are all 
together under the old beech-tree yonder.” 
“Thank God, and out of harm’$ way! But 
you — you did not get hurt, did you ? — nothing 
has happened to you, I hope ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing will ever hurt me again, Ada, if 
you can only forgive, and tell me there’s a hope 
left — that in time I may win back what I had so 
nearly lost,” he said. 


226 


ada’s trust. 


“ Forgive! It is not a question of forgiveness, 
I understand it all — now. I have trusted you all 
the time, for I knew you must have had grave 
cause for your silence — how grave I did not com- 
prehend until Daisy Garnet explained every- 
thing,” she said, in her sweet, gentle way, as, 
leaning on his arm, she walked slowly by his 
side. 

‘ ‘And now ? ’ ’ 

“And now the life you have saved is yours, if 
you still value it.” 

“With God’s help I will strive to be worthy 
of so precious a trust. You have made me, in- 
describably happy — too happy for mere words! 
The future — ” What he would have said was 
interrupted by the appearance of Daisy Garnet 
running towards them. There was a frightened, 
pallid look in her eyes and face, and when she 
got near enough to be heard she said, while 
throwing a shawl she had picked up around Ada: 
“ Mr. Darrall is very ill; the shock will kill him, 
I’m sure. We were all asleep when the outcries 
of the negroes awoke us to the fact that the 
house was on fire; and there was barely time to 
have him wheeled out and make our escape. In 
the confusion and panic I missed you, Ada. 
Where did you go? You were with the rest of 
us at first.” 

“Yes: I missed Mrs. Willis; I inquired of the 
servants if she had been seen. No one could 
tell me anything, and I ran through the back 


ADA’S TRUST. 


227 


passage up-stairs to her room, and there I found 
her on the floor in a faint. I did everything j 
could to rouse her, but she did not stir; and by 
that time the flames had reached the staircase, to 
which I ran back to call for help. ’ ’ 

u The fire hemmed her in, Miss Garnet; and 
but for the mercy of God she would have been 
burnt up with Mrs. Willis.” 

“And you?” 

“I had been strolling on the beach until after 
midnight — but I will tell you more about it by 
and by,” said Maurice Talbot. 

“Oh Ada! Ada!” cried the impulsive girl, 
throwing her arms around Ada and clasping her 
close to her breast, ‘ ‘ to think of you being in 
such peril, and I doing nothing!” 

Ada returned the caress, whispering: 4 ‘You have 
saved more than my life — my happiness! ” 

A silence fell upon them as they drew near the 
almost motionless group under the old beech. 
Mr. Darrall, reclining upon pillows, his pale 
visage as one glorified in the luminous radiance 
cast upon it by the flames, his hands folded to- 
gether, his eyes half-closed, was sinking, dying 
painlessly. Mrs. Ogden stood by his side, wip- 
ing the death-damp from his face. Judith knelt 
close against him, her head touching his shoulder, 
her hands clasped tightly over her heart as if to 
still every emotion, lest his peace should be 
broken. Seeing how it was, Ada and Maurice 
Talbot knelt, as did Daisy Garnet, withdrawing 


228 


ADA’S TRUST. 


herself first from the group united by so sacred 
a sorrow. At this moment there was a heavy 
crash : the roof had fallen in ; and for a moment 
the fiery glare was obscured, and the air filled 
with smoke and sparks. Mr. Darrall opened his 
eyes, and for an instant a look of anguish wrung 
his features: his library, the most precious of his 
earthly possessions, was engulfed in the fiery 
wreck. “It is my burnt-offering, ’ ’ he whispered ; 
“so, O Lord! cleanse me as with fire!” The lids 
closed over his eyes, and they saw by the drawn 
features, and the gray shadow that overspread 
them, that the end was near. Mrs. Ogden’s 
grief was deep, and her voice almost inarticulate 
with emotion; but, with that lovely unselfishness 
which had characterized her whole life, she rose 
above her pain, and kneeling by his side, began 
the prayers for the dying, in which Ada and 
Talbot united with devout fervor. When they 
arose, they saw that his spirit had passed — passed 
away in hope, he having, by the grace of God, 
made his peace before the night had come — that 
“night when no man can work.” 

The living were not forgotten in their grief 
for the dead, and as soon as day dawned Mrs. 
Willis’s condition was looked after. Still lying 
upon the mattress, she had been borne by some 
of the negroes to the shelter of the barn, where 
she had been tended by two or three of the older 
women of the plantation, who enjoyed themselves 
highly brewing coffee, and partaking of various 


ADA’S TRUST. 


229 


dainties that in the wild confusion had been 
thrown out of the store-room window. Con- 
sciousness had returned, but her left side was 
paralyzed. As gathered from her, scrap by scrap, 
she had rushed up to her room, at the first alarm, 
to gather together her valuables. A leather 
money-belt, full of gold and silver coins, was 
buckled around her waist under her gown, from 
which depended various stocking-feet, likewise 
stored; for Mrs. Willis, like most people of her 
class, had no faith in banks, and kept her 
money always within her own reach. She could 
have escaped easily, but having attempted to 
drag to the window a heavy chest, which was 
packed with the spoils and peculations of 
years, intending to pitch it out, she stumbled 
over something and fell, striking her head 
against the edge of the open door; and what 
with the excitement of terror, her violent efforts, 
and the blow, she became unconscious, and 
would have been burnt to death but for Ada’s 
humane effort to save her life, by which, as you 
have seen, she nearly lost her own. As soon as 
the news of all that had happened reached Floyd 
Willis, he came East, and, waiting until Mr. 
Darrall’s legacy was secured to his mother, took 
her away to Indiana, where they bought a small 
farm, and where he made her life miserable by 
his neglect, and by marrying a woman who ill- 
treated and tyrannized over her. Her last days, 
bitter enough, had some comfort infused into 


230 


ADA’S TRUST. 


them by the ministrations of the gentle religi » 
euses of St. Mary’s, who heard of her helpless con- 
dition, giving her human sympathy, and sooth- 
ing, as far as they could, her extreme suffering. 
All other consolations she refused, dying as she 
had lived. And so Mrs. Willis passes out of our 
story; and if I have anticipated a little in relat- 
ing briefly what became of her, it is that I may 
get to the end without further digression. 

The faithful priest who, by the grace of God, 
had induced Mr. Darrall, after awakening his 
conscience, to return to the practice of his long- 
abandoned faith, performed the last sad offices; 
and he was laid by the side of the wife of his 
first love, and in a grave blessed by the rites of 
the Church — in dust consecrated for the repose 
of those who u die in the Lord.” An examina- 
tion of his affairs surprised every one, when the 
large amount of his wealth was ascertained. 
Living in seclusion, and without expensive 
habits, or the least inclination to speculate, 
everything accumulated — interest, compound 
interest, increased values in real estate, etc. — 
year after year until the day of his death. By 
his will, his slaves were left free, and to each 
head of a family, and to the others, pro rata , 
sufficient means to emigrate to the free States, 
as their remaining in Virginia was contrary to 
the law. With the exception of handsome lega- 
cies to Mrs. Ogden and Ada, and a few others, 
and some generous bequests for charitable and 


ADA’S TRUST. 


231 


humane purposes, he willed all that remained — 
a splendid fortune — to his beloved and only 
child, Judith Darrall, naming Mrs. Ogden as her 
guardian and the administratrix of the estate. 

Two years passed. Maurice Talbot and Ada 
were quietly married one morning in the Cathe- 
dral, at the Archbishop’s Mass, which was the 
earliest. Except Paul Thornton and Daisy Gar- 
net, old Mr.. Reed, and the servants, only the 
family were present. There were a few devout 
persons in the Cathedral — it was too early for the 
guests whose curiosity on such occasions brings 
them uninvited — but there was nothing to dis- 
tract the recollection of the young pair from the 
deep significance of the vows they plighted to 
each other in the presence of the Adorable Sacra- 
ment of the altar, or when they both received 
Holy Communion as a sign and seal of God’s 
approval and the benediction of the Church. 
The three altars were loaded with flowers, whose 
fragrance filled the Cathedral; and liberal alms 
were privately left in the Archbishop’s hands to 
be distributed to the needy, the donors to remain 
unknown. The flowers and alms, with their 
marriage vows, their lives, and their future, were 
the offerings made by Talbot and Ada to Heaven 
on this morning of their new existence. 

I11 these two years, many lessons taught by 
the example of her Catholic friends had sunk 
deep into Daisy Garnet’s heart. Mr. Darrall’ s 
death — the hour, the scene, the prayers for his 


* 3 * 


ADA’S TRUST. 


departing soul — had left an impression never to 
be effaced from her mind. Her daily intercourse 
with them had proved conclusively to her that 
their religion wa& no sham, for she saw that it 
entered into, and was the vital motif of, their 
daily life. But she kept her thoughts to herself. 
She had lost none of her high, fine spirit: she 
was as outspoken, and enjoyed a harmless bit of 
mischief as much as ever; but there was a subtle 
change going on, by which the soul was assert- 
ing itself above nature; nor could the most cen- 
sorious pick a flaw in her conduct, however much 
they tried. They could not account for it, for 
there was the old gayety and love of mischief on 
the surface, through which their worldly wisdom 
could not pierce. Nor were they enlightened, 
until one day the morning papers announced 
that u The brilliant daughter of our distin- 
guished jurist, Grahame Garnet, Esq., one of 
the most beautiful and accomplished belles of 
Baltimore, had been, with the consent of her 
parents, who witnessed the ceremony, received 
into the Catholic Church by His Grace the Arch- 
bishop. ’ ’ Then they all declared that she was 
always “ flighty, and never satisfied unless she 
was doing something quite different from other 
people.” Later, it was rumored that she was 
engaged to be married to a wealthy New York 
gentleman; but as this was not confirmed by a 
formal announcement, it was supposed to be 
only one of “Daisy Garnet’s flirtations, who 


ADA’S TRUST. 


233 


would go on trifling until she’d have to content 
herself with a crooked stick at last.” But they 
were neither “prophets nor the sons of proph- 
ets,” as I will tell you. Paul Thornton was the 
gentleman in question. He had always admired 
Daisy Garnet, and a more intimate acquaintance 
with her won a warmer and deeper sentiment; 
but when he proposed, the answer he got was 
that she had made up her mind to marry a Cath- 
olic; and unless she could find one who came up 
to her requirements she meant to live and die as 
she was. 

“But I am a Catholic,” he pleaded. 

‘ ‘ Yon ! ’ ’ she exclaimed, opening her great 
brown eyes on him with a flash; “where, then, 
have you hidden your faith away all this time? 
Is it under a bushel, or ‘ folded up in a napkin’ 
and buried? Why, Mr. Thornton, I have never 
seen you even bless yourself when you have gone 
to church with me! I thank you all the same, 
though, for the compliment you have paid, but 
for your sake as well as my own I cannot accept 
you. ’ ’ 

“Is what you have named the only obstacle?” 
he asked, almost struck dumb with astonish- 
ment. 

‘ 1 That is a question you have no right to ask, ’ ’ 
she answered, with an air of haughty reserve, 
while all the time her heart was urging her the 
other way; but she was firm. 

He took up his hat, and bade her “good-bye,” 


234 


ADA’S TRUST. 


perhaps forever — he did not know — and went 
away. What had he gained for having virtually 
denied his Faith all these years? — his best inter- 
ests in the eternal future, and his most cherished 
and dearest earthly hopes to be sacrificed for his 
almost apostasy! The man was startled into a 
closer questioning of himself; this girl that he 
loved had awakened his slumbering conscience 
as by the application of moral thumb-screws to 
his most precious human aspirations! These 
were no evanescent sentiments, to be chilled to 
death by his disappointment; and the longer he 
thought the matter over, the more convinced he 
felt that he had been a disloyal, cowardly Cath- 
olic. And what had he got in exchange? 
Nothing: and now, to crown all, he had suffered 
the loss of the only woman he had ever loved! 
He did not allow pride and human respect to 
stand in the way or choke down a grave consid- 
eration, and firm pursuit of the momentous ques- 
tions which had so suddenly startled him; and 
he would have done it all the same had he lost 
all hope of ever seeing Daisy Garnet again. She 
did not at all enter into his motives for delib- 
erately seeking reconciliation with his Faith. 
How did it happen that he had wandered so far 
astray? From a cause too common. His par- 
ents, both Catholics, died when he was only ten 
years old. Up to that time no child had been 
better instructed, both bv example and precept, 
regarding his faith. He was left to the guar- 


/ 


ADA’S TRUST. 


235 


dianship of Protestant relations, having no 
others; and although they did not interfere in 
the least with his religious belief, they left him 
to his own devices, to “gang his ain gait;” 
this, aided by his daily associations and the old 
Adam in him, led him to think that a life unre- 
strained by such strict requirements as the Cath- 
olic Faith imposed, would be far more pleasant 
to live. And- so he had drifted farther and far- 
ther away from its practices, until the day he 
had offeree himself to Daisy Garnet, and been 
‘‘brought up all standing,” by the terms of her 
refusal. His conversion, which followed after 
many months’ searching investigation of him- 
self and the questions at issue, was, by a process 
of deliberate thought and action, a radical change 
of will and purpose. He had no vices to drop, 
no dishonorable stains to whitewash, no sacrifice 
to make, except the jeers of some who scorned 
all religious restraints and beliefs: there was 
nothing to hold him back, and, full of the dig- 
nity of true manhood, he sought re-admission, 
through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, into 
that one safe Fold in which by baptism he had 
heritage. 

A year later, when travelling on the St. Law- 
rence, he accidentally met Daisy Garnet on her 
way with the Talbots to the Saguenay, then but 
little explored by tourists. He was invited to 
join the party, which he did, notwithstanding 
the air of reserve with which she received him. 


236 


ADA’S TRUST. 


Towards the close of the journey, when theii 
faces were turned homeward, he once more of- 
fered himself to Daisy Garnet, and was not re- 
fused. Their wedding was not so quiet a one as 
Ada’s had been, for Mr. and Mrs. Garnet were 
of the opinion that the nuptials of their only 
child should be marked by all the lavish display 
that wealth and good taste could command, and 
something was due to their prejudices. The 
bridal paraphernalia — the trousseau , the mar- 
riage solemnities at the Cathedral, which were 
performed by the Archbishop, assisted by several 
distinguished clergymen, all arrayed in superb 
vestments; the music, the flowers, the wedding 
cortege — made quite a feast for the journalistic 
“Grundys” of the day. And so Mr. and Mrs. 
Thornton also pass out of our pages as a dream 
to be pleasantly remembered. 

Judith Darrall’s health had not been good 
since her father’s death; she was always sad, al- 
ways brooding, and liked to be alone. It was the 
old secret dread of insanity weighing upon her 
spirit; and, although she made every effort to 
conceal her moods for the sake of the friends she 
most dearly loved, it was all in vain. Without 
her being aware of the fact, Mrs. Ogden had in- 
vited the best medical skill to an examination of 
the case. The doctors were known to her only 
as her aunt’s guests, and beyond that she felt no 
interest in their presence, when they came from 
time to time — those from New York spending 


ADA’S TRUST. 


*37 


two or three days — all of them noting minutely 
her every word, movement, and expression. 
Their united opinion was, there was nothing ap- 
parent to indicate latent insanity; and as the 
doubt of her mother having been insane was, 
from the evidence shown, more than reasonable, 
there could be no heredity in the case; but the 
young lady had a highly-strung, sensitive or- 
ganization, upon which a pending dread, such 
as possessed her, would eventually end in grave 
mental disturbance, unless her habit of thought 
could, by some means, be corrected. They ad- 
vised change of scene, cheerful associations, in 
fact anything that would divert her mind. If she 
had taste for music, or painting, or flowers, cul- 
tivate it, they said, by affording her every facility 
for the purpose. This was the only comfort that 
human skill could impart, and with it her friends 
tried to feel satisfied of the groundlessness of 
their fears, while the directions were obeyed to 
the letter. “Cousin John,” the Archbishop of 
Baltimore, feeling the deepest interest in the sad 
case of his young kinswoman, had, by the most 
tender and fatherly approaches, so entirely won 
her confidence, that she showed less reserve 
towards him than any one else; and I should be 
glad to tell you how,. by imperceptible degrees, 
he was gently leading her from her old dreary 
creed into the light of the new, as founded by 
the Son of God. “Yes, my child,” he would 
say, “the days you glory in, when God mani- 


233 


ADA’S TRUST. 


fested Himself by wonderful ways to His ancient 
people by the splendor of His countenance, 
through His angels, and by His prophets, we 
also glory in: we must be Jews before we can be 
Christians in the belief of all that foreran the 
coming of the Redeemer. He was a Jew; that 
He came ‘to fulfil the Law, not to destroy it,’ 
were His own blessed words; and when you open 
your sore, desolate heart to give Him entrance, 
you will then know that He is not only the ful- 
filler of all prophecy, but the Messiah, the Con- 
soler, the Redeemer of the world.” To which 
she would sadly answer: “If I could I would be- 
lieve. I wear the medal you gave me: perhaps 
she, that glorious Virgin of David’s line, will 
pity me, and help to drive from my life the dark 
shadow that overhangs it.” 

“That removed entirely and forever, dear 
child, would you not be generous, and give your- 
self entirely to Him who died for you?” 

“I see no way, no hope, unless the God of my 
fathers will send His angel to tell me that the 
thing I dread is a fantasy,” she said, drearily. 

“Never fear, my child; He holds you in His 
holy keeping. He answers prayer, according to 
His promise, in His own good time and way; 
until then, have courage, and trust His word 
with the same faith that your fathers did.” 
Masses, novenas, prayers, alms-giving, and 
other good works were offered for Judith Dar- 
rall’s conversion by the Archbishop and het 


ADA’S TRUST. 


239 


friends- — they believing that the Divine Truth, 
as revealed to and taught by the Church, would 
be to her a rock of defence against every evil, an 
anchor of hope sure and steadfast in the hour of 
tribulation. 

By one of those incidents which appear to 
happen in the common order of things, but 
which, beyond all doubt, Providence directs, the 
veil of mystery overhanging Mrs. Darrall’s death 
was unexpectedly removed. While spending a 
few days in Quebec one autumn, preparatory to 
returning home, Mrs. Ogden, Judith, and the 
Talbots, who were of the party, had observed 
one of the waiters, a fine-looking, brown fellow 
of most gentlemanly appearance, watching them 
furtively and with close attention, at every op- 
portunity. He was not at their table, but seemed 
on the qui vive to serve them when their own 
waiter was not at hand. There was nothing ob- 
trusive in his manner; but in his eyes and in 
every line of his countenance there was a most 
wistful expression. When they spoke of it to 
each other, Mrs. Ogden said there was something 
familiar in the man’s face, which she could not 
place; that he was probably a fugitive slave 
from some one of the plantations near “Darrall 
House,” or that he might even have belonged to 
her brother. They thought it best, however, 
not to notice him, thinking if he wished to make 
himself known for any purpose, he would take 
an opportunity to do so. 


240 


ADA’S TRUST. 


One afternoon, towards sunset, Mrs. Ogden 
and Judith were alone, sitting out on the broad 
window-balcony, now reading, now talking a 
little, and now watching the western sky, al- 
ready burnished and glowing with the indescrib- 
ably rich tints peculiar to autumn in that north- 
ern latitude. A shadow, more than the man’s 
light footfall, caused them to look up; and there 
stood the waiter Silas, with a certain dignity in 
his presence, perfectly respectful in manner, 
while his countenance wore a composed, firm 
expression. 

u May I speak to you, Madam?” he said, ad- 
dressing Mrs. Ogden. U I have been waiting for 
an opportunity to do -so ever since you arrived 
here, but I had not courage. I have something 
to say, Madam, that I think you ought to know, 
or I would not have intruded.” 

u What can you have to say that is of interest 
to me? and yet I seem to remember having seen 
you before, or some one very like you! ” 

“No wonder you don’t know me, Madam: I 
was a boy of sixteen when you last saw me; but 
I knew you the moment I saw you in the dining- 
room, the day you got here. I served lunch for 
you, Madam, if you remember? My name is 
Silas Allan.” 

u Yes. What is it you wish to say, Silas?” 
she responded, surprised at the man’s cultivated 
style of speech and manner, and wondering 
where he had acquired them. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


241 


(< I belonged to old Mr. Tom Allan, Madam. 
His plantation lay back of Old Point Comfort, 
on the main land. He was very intimate with 
Mr. Darrall, and I used to drive him down to 
the Cape in his gig, being of light weight. ’ ’ 
u Yes: I remember seeing Mr. Allan at my 
brother’s; also, that a colored youth always drove 
for him. Now I see! Your old master thought 
a great deal of you, Silas. ’ ’ 

“Indeed he did, Madam; he was the best 
friend I ever had in my life,” said the man, 
while tears filled his eyes. 4 ‘ I was the same age 
as my young master, and whatever he had I 
shared. I loved him like a brother, for all his 
wild ways and fiery temper. He wouldn’t study; 
old master sent him to ‘William and Mary 
College ’ to be educated, but he kept himself in 
hot water all the time he was there, breaking 
the rules, and getting into all sorts of mischief, 
so they had to expel him. Then old master got 
a tutor from New England, determined to send 
him abroad to be educated, and I was ordered to 
be ready to go with them, as my young master’s 
valet. But he wouldn’t study any more in 
Europe than he had done at home, and told the 
tutor to cultivate my brains instead of bothering 
over his: that life wasn't long enough to have a 
good time and study too. And he stuck to his 
word. And it so happened that the gentleman 
taught me all that he had been trying to teach 

the young master, who, strange to say, took the 
" 8 * 


242 


ADA’S TRUST. 


greatest pride in my advancement.* He had the 
heart of a prince, poor Master Tom! and a hot 
Southern temper with it. We stayed abroad 
four years, Madam, and had been home only six 
months when old master died, leaving every- 
thing he had in the world to his son, for he had 
no other child. After awhile, Madam, every- 
thing began to go to the bad: gambling, horse- 
racing and carousing were the order of the day; 
the young master had no thought except squan- 
dering his fortune and living riotously. Then a 
time came when he began to sell his slaves, to 
get means to carry on his excesses. At first he 

.f 

sold them in families, then singly, then any way 
he could, to the highest bidder among the negro- 
traders who were always prowling about. He 
knew he was going to ruin, and what between a 
feeling of desperation and strong drink, his tem- 
per became savage. In old master’s time, there 
was no use for the old oak whipping-post, but 
now — good Lord! Madam, it would sicken you 
if I told you all that happened at that time. He 
struck me one night across my face with a short 
dog- whip he had in his hand — here’s the mark 
across my cheek yet — then he ordered the over- 
seer to handcuff me, to whip me in the morning, 
then sell me to a slave-dealer who was expected 
the next day. I did not wait for my sentence to 

* It was no unusual thing in the South for the servants of 
the young ladies and gentlemen of the family, who had 
grown up with them, to receive the same advantages that 
they did, despite the laws. 


ADA’S TRUST. 


243 


be executed; I made my escape in the night, 
travelling through brush, briars and swamps, 
never stopping to rest, doubling back on my 
trail and losing it in the water of the swamps, 
until I got into the neighborhood of Mr. Dar- 
rall’s plantation, where I lay hiding in the under- 
growth that borders the lake, waiting for night, 
that I might go there in safety to meet one who 
would conduct me to what was known as the 
4 underground railroad. ’ While I crouched there, 
half-famished, my clothes torn to pieces, and my 
flesh scored and bleeding by the briars, I saw 
Mrs. Darrall lose her life. She got into her 
boat, which she did not unfasten, and was sitting 
there singing as merry as a bird, when, all at 
once, she found herself adrift; the wind, which 
was blowing pretty hard, strained the rope, and 
it broke.” 

Judith fixed her burning eyes on the man’s 
face; Mrs. Ogden took both her cold hands in 
her own, and listened breathlessly. 

1 1 She made every effort in her power to turn 
the boat. She screamed for help, and I heard 
her calling the names of her husband and child. 
I did not dare to move, for I heard the baying of 
bloodhounds on the wind, and I knew if she 
kept perfectly still the boat would drift ashore on 
the opposite side of the lake; but the water got 
very rough — it was being churned into a white 
fury. She got more frightened, and tried to 
get under the seats, and even that slight move- 


244 


ADA’S TRUST. 


ment upset the little craft, and turned it bottom 
upwards. Nearer and nearer, Madam, I heard 
the hounds, tracking me; but I dashed into the 
lake to try to save her when she would rise to 
the surface; but there was no sign of her after- 
wards. I heard after some time, in a letter I got 
from the Cape, that it was said she committed 
suicide, and had lost her mind beforehand. It 
was all false; I was informed that up to that day 
a saner, happier lady never lived, and if ever a 
human being struggled for life, she did. She 
had no thought of such a thing; it was a terrible 
accident, sudden and unexpected to Mr. Darrall, 
and no one could have saved her from it. I 
made my escape to Canada, and all these years 
have been wanting to tell you, but did not know, 
Madam, your address. ’ ’ 

u God sent us to you to hear it!” exclaimed 
Judith, grasping his dark hand. “Oh, thank 
you! thank you! Now peace may come.” A 
flood of tears gushed from her eyes, and she laid 
her head on Mrs. Ogden’s bosom, sobbing softly. 

“This lady is Mrs. Darrall’ s daughter. What 
you have told us has made us very happy, Silas. 
We will see you again later, after Mr. and Mrs. 
Talbot come in from their drive; then I will let 
you know all the good you have done this day.” 
The man left them with tears on his dusky 
cheeks. 

Ada’s trials and trust were not without their 
fruits. 

The End. 


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